


Building Jerusalem

by ampersand_ch



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Betrayal, Canonical Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, Friendship/Love, Gardens & Gardening, Infidelity, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Marriage, Murder, Secrets, Sherlock Holmes and Bees, Siberia, Spies & Secret Agents, Sussex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-21
Updated: 2016-04-21
Packaged: 2018-06-03 15:11:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 26,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6615391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ampersand_ch/pseuds/ampersand_ch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John finds out that Sherlock has more secrets from him than he ever imagined. The discovery threatens to destroy their relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Nothing Is Certain in This World

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SwissMiss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/gifts).
  * A translation of [Wiesengrund](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6615160) by [ampersand_ch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ampersand_ch/pseuds/ampersand_ch). 



> My never ending thanks to SwissMiss who translated this story from German into English!

John walked hunched over to protect his face. He'd wrapped his scarf around his mouth and nose and pulled his hood down as far over his face as it would go. The icy wind drove hard, dry bits of snow through the grey winter air. John walked quickly, his hands hidden in the pockets of his parka. The city was empty. Bare. No one was out on the streets. The huge blocks of flats were gloomy and off-putting. Sparse snow swept across the concrete slabs. John didn't know the area. He couldn't even read the name of the city, much less pronounce it. He wasn't familiar with Cyrillic. He'd flown here to look for him. To find him. No matter what it cost. He'd been looking for years. But now he was sure he was here. John walked as if in a trance. Siberia. The thought of him was warming. A vague sense of hope in this barren expanse of pain.

One side street further on afforded a view of a square. People. Light. John walked toward them. A market. The market stalls were close together, packed in dirty tarps and plastic sheeting, woollen blankets, old rugs, shabby wooden walls and cardboard. Makeshift shelter against the wind and cold. Burning rubbish in old oil drums that stank more than they warmed. Thickly bundled figures eyeing the goods for sale, making a purchase here and there of frozen fish, meat, potatoes, turnips, cabbage. Hands in tattered knitted gloves exchanged crumpled bank notes for things wrapped in newspaper. 

John stopped in front of a vegetable stand. He was hungry. Should he buy a couple of potatoes? But where could he cook them? He didn't have any place to stay. The old woman behind the stand said something to him. The language incomprehensible. He pointed at the potatoes. She grumbled but picked up two with gloves that were stiff with dirt and held them out to him. John made a sign that he wanted more. She added two more. John nodded. Someone behind him said something. A hand in a thick mitten passed forward an old bank note. The woman took it, said something, the voice behind him answered. A foreign language. John turned around.

The man was taller than him. A long, threadbare army coat, fur hat, a dirty woollen scarf covering his face. The eyes narrowed to slits to protect them from the wind and cold. Sherlock! John felt as if he'd lost touch with reality. He stared at the man, frozen in surprise. It was Sherlock. Those were Sherlock's eyes. 

The man took the potatoes. Then a painful grip on John's bicep. The man pulled him away from the stand, hard and rough. Dragged him out of the market, across concrete slabs through the snow flurries and icy wind. So fast that John could barely keep up. The grip on his arm strong and unyielding. John lost all sense of direction. An abandoned side street, where he was shoved up against the wall of a building. Only then did the man let go. John stared into the face in front of him.

"Sherlock?"

Pale, water-coloured eyes met John's. The man set the newspaper bundle with the potatoes down on the ground and pushed the scarf out of his face with his lumpy mittens. 

Sherlock.

John's legs threatened to give way when the man extricated his hand from the mitten a moment later and reached for John, pulled John's scarf down to free his face. A firm, warm hand slid in under the scarf, against his neck, and the next thing John knew he felt lips on his. Warm, hungry lips. 

Sherlock.

John closed his eyes and kissed the man, kissed him as if for the last time. Deep and hard. Warmth spread inside him. Home. Sherlock. Completion. Pain. Painful, deep, burning love. John reached for the fur hat when the other man pulled away, took it off his head. A tangle of curls. Grey. John took off his gloves and buried his hands in them. Buried them as if seeking an anchor, an affirmation, all the time keeping his own eyes locked on those pale ones, still narrowed.

"Sherlock."

The other man nodded curtly. He put the hat back on his head, slipped back into the mittens, picked up the dirty bag with the potatoes from the ground.

"Come," he said.

John walked at his side. Windswept cold. Empty streets. Abandoned alleys. A block of flats, old and run down. Third floor. A single, bare room. Tiny. The smell of crude oil. Single bed. Table and stool. Shelf. In one corner a sink, next to that a simple gas burner. One wooden chair. It was cold. The man lit the oil heater by the window. The chimney consisted of a metal pipe that had been installed through the pane of glass. The seam was sealed with silicon and duct tape.

"It will warm up soon," the man said.

His breath left behind a banner of steam. He took the hat off his head, removed the scarf from his face. John opened his parka, pulled back the hood, unwound the scarf from his neck. They stood there face to face, observing each other. John looked into the blue eyes, which were now open. Open and filled with emotion.

"John." His voice low and trembling.

John stood there and watched him. Sherlock. He was old. Bony. His face lined, his skin like leather, his hair grey. And yet he was so familiar, so painfully familiar.

"How long?" John asked tonelessly.

He didn't even know how long he'd been looking anymore. He'd lost track of time long ago. Had just kept looking, always looking, looking everywhere. His only purpose in life.

"Eighteen years."

Eighteen years. But the warmth was still there. The unsullied joy that spread and surrounded them now, crowding out all other realities. The two of them. They were together. Eighteen years. They looked at each other. There was nothing to say. Nothing to tell. Everything was irrelevant, no matter what had happened. Sherlock took a single, hesitant step, and then they were hugging. Shy at first, then fierce. They nestled into each other. Wordless. Not letting go. They sniffed at each other, kissed, clawed their hands into each other, bit, cried, sobbed. They sank down together onto the hard bed, peeled off their clothes and made love. Made love tenderly and freely. They were still so familiar to each other, still so sure of what they were doing as if the last time had merely been yesterday. 

Eighteen years.

All those years of emptiness. Lost time. Now they were old. So many years wasted on unhappiness.

John woke up in a daze. He was hot, much too hot. His breaths were laboured. He felt beside him, touched the other body. Thank God! Sherlock was there. But something was wrong. John was confused. He felt for the lamp on the nightstand, turned it on and started. It was Sherlock's room. The old room on Baker Street. He wasn't in Siberia. Had they come back home? Sherlock lay beside him in bed and grumbled softly, probably complaining about the light. 

John sat up and looked around the room, out of breath, tried to orientate himself. He turned to Sherlock, saw the tousled head on the pillows, the first few strands of silver in the dark hair. Sherlock hadn't gone grey. Not yet. Had he been dreaming? They were on Baker Street. They lived here. Had done so for many years now. John shook himself, tried to shake off the dream. It had been so realistic, so incredibly realistic. John was still filled with an intense feeling of grief and love. Strange. It had been a long time since he'd had such a lucid dream.

"What's wrong, John?" Sherlock asked sleepily. He'd turned over.

"I'm not sure," John said slowly. "I think I was having a dream. It was so vivid. I'm still a little spacy."

"Nightmare?"

John took a deep breath. "No," he said quietly. "It was just really... emotional."

"You look like hell."

"I'll get a drink of water."

John got up, went into the bathroom, then the kitchen, filled a glass with cold water and drank it, leaning against the sink, lost in thought. His insides still in an uproar. Fear that Sherlock could leave, that John couldn't get to him anymore. That he would disappear somewhere out there in the cold, untraceable. That what he'd dreamed might come true in some way. Lost in Siberia. Icy solitude. He would find him, but too late. At the end of their lives. Would he even be able to stay with Sherlock? Would he want to stay? Share that meagre, cold existence with him? What would they live on? Would they be separated again? Eighteen long years, only to find that the life he'd searched for so long, so desperately, was no longer possible?

John took a sip of cold water. He needed to rid himself of the dream. Maybe it was just a way of processing things. Maybe those years were catching up to him, those years in which he'd thought Sherlock was dead. Maybe it was the changes that were coming that were rumbling around in his subconscious. Had the point come at which he feared change? Feared those things that weren't exactly the same as before?

John closed his eyes when Sherlock shuffled into the kitchen, took the glass out of his hand and hugged him, soft and warm.

"Come back to bed, John."

"Stay with me, Sherlock."

"Of course. Of course I'll stay with you. Where else would I go, hm?"

"Siberia?" John whispered anxiously, his eyes still closed, ensconced in Sherlock's warmth.

"Not voluntarily," Sherlock said.

He'd hesitated with his answer for a fraction of a second. He spoke the words as if making fun. But his body had stiffened for a brief moment. He was startled. John felt it.

"I'll look for you. Until I find you, Sherlock. I won't give up. Never. I'll look for you until I die. I won't let us be separated."

Sherlock's embrace became tighter, more tender.

"No one will separate us, John," he said gently.

"Are you sure?"

Silence spread between them. A long, anxious silence. Sherlock pulled away from John, looked him in the eye.

"No," he said soberly. "Nothing in this world is certain, John. You know that as well as I."

"Yeah. Yeah, I know. Sorry. It was such a crazy dream, you know? I can't shake it. I'm sorry. Let's go back to sleep."


	2. Sussex

"What would you think of moving to the country?"

"The country? What do you mean?"

"Sussex. A quaint cottage. Mild climate. Garden. Peace and quiet. An adventure."

"An adventure? You're not serious, Sherlock. You'd waste away with boredom."

"No. You'd be there. Wouldn't you?"

Sherlock had started in on it at some point and wouldn't let it go.

"We could keep honeybees," he said.

"Sherlock, it's not that easy. You need to know something about bees, you can't just keep them."

"I'm serious, John."

"Maybe when we're old."

"We ARE old. Lestrade's retiring in two months. Time to think about things. For us too."

John looked up. Lestrade retiring? Was that even possible?

Sherlock joined him on the couch. It was still the same old one. It had become worn and threadbare over all the years. They'd never changed anything about the furnishings of their flat at 221B Baker Street. Not even when Mrs Hudson had moved to the nursing home. She needed specialised care. The downstairs flat remained empty. Mrs Hudson had signed the house over to them. The two of them. Sherlock Holmes and Dr John H. Watson. 

John recalled the evening quite well when Mrs Hudson had come to them and said, "I'm going to turn the house over to you before I need to go into a nursing home, while I can still make decisions. To the two of you. I don't have any heirs and I want it to be in good hands. But you'll need to get married first."

"I don't think we'll be doing that, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock had replied following a moment of shock.

The old lady had continued, a little sourly, "You've lived together so long. And it doesn't look like that's going to change. What's the problem?"

They'd exchanged a look, John and Sherlock. Mrs Hudson had chattered on obliviously: "It's not as if you're still virgins after all these years. Are you?"

Mrs Hudson had looked from one to the other, but both had remained silent. Living one's personal life was one thing, but making it public was something else altogether.

"Or are you not admitting to it?" Mrs Hudson's voice sounded provocative.

"Mrs Hudson," Sherlock had begun awkwardly, "admitting to it doesn't mean proclaiming it to the world."

"I'm not saying that. You simply need to have your partnership recognised legally so I can bequeath the house to you. Everything else is your business. Although I'd be delighted by a real wedding. It would be so romantic! If I could live to see that..."

Mrs Hudson clapped her hands together excitedly. Sherlock rolled his eyes. John smirked.

They'd never talked about it. They'd solved cases, saved lives and lived their own life. Their newfound life together after Mary's death. Their days marked by everything that connected them. Friendship and love. Outwardly: friendship, work, side by side, hard, tough, unimpeachable, willing to make sacrifices. In the privacy of their shared flat: love, warmth, passion. Arguments and tears as well. Never declared. Mrs Hudson was right. They'd been living as a couple for so long, and it didn't look like that was going to change.

And so they'd done it, following tense discussions and lots of back-and-forths. They'd made their partnership official, got married. For the sake of peace and Mrs Hudson. Quietly, without any fuss. Mrs Hudson and Lestrade as witnesses sworn to silence, no one else. In secret, in a manner of speaking. There were even rings. Neither of them wore them, neither John nor Sherlock. Sometimes John pulled out the drawer and opened the little box, took the ring out. It was a narrow, very plain platinum band with 'Sherlock' engraved in it. That was it. Sherlock had the same thing with 'John'. John didn't know whether Sherlock ever thought of it, whether he sometimes looked at the ring as John did and put it on his finger and wanted to wear it, but then didn't.

"I've already found a cottage," Sherlock said. "It's in the ideal location for keeping bees. We can go and have a look if you'd like."

"We already have a house, Sherlock."

"We'll let it."

"Mrs Hudson won't like that."

"She said it's our house, we can do whatever we like with it, including selling it. But we won't do that. Maybe one of us will want to come back here at some point."

"And how to you propose financing this cottage?"

"My inheritance will cover the down payment, the bank will accept 221B Baker Street as security and give us a mortgage for the rest. We'll also need a little money to get us set up."

"It sounds like you've already got everything lined up."

Sherlock smiled. "It's all ready," he said. "You just need to like the cottage, and it's all ours."

John shook his head. "Sherlock. You need my signature to put this place up as security. I hope you realise that. The building belongs to both of us."

"I know. You'll sign as soon as you've seen the cottage, John. I'm sure of it."

"I have my practise here in London. How's that supposed to work?"

"Give it up. Sell it. You've taken care of enough sick people."

John exhaled noisily through his nose and got up, took a few steps back and forth. "We could have talked about plans for the future earlier, couldn't we? Before you went and arranged everything." John's annoyance was clearly audible.

"We are talking about it, John. Nothing's decided yet."

"No?"

John stared defiantly at Sherlock, who sat there relaxed on the couch, his legs crossed, his arm stretched out across the back. It made John angry.

"Who says I want to go to Sussex? You never asked me. Never. Maybe I have completely different plans for retirement."

"Such as?"

John snorted and didn't answer. He hadn't thought about it yet. Things were good the way they were for him. Baker Street, Sherlock, the surgery, a case now and then. There was no reason for him to change any of that. He didn't want to change things.

"Think of it as an option, John," Sherlock said in a conciliatory way. "It's nothing more than that. Let's just go and have a look."

 

***

 

Wheat fields ready for harvest traded off with barley and expanses of grassland where sheep grazed. White bunches of clouds drifted in the deep blue sky. It was a wonderful late summer day. The cottage lay nestled between mature trees, its walls greenish-grey stone, the tall latticework windows gleaming white. The door to the house sheltered by gables, a wild grapevine covering nearly the entire facade. It was a two-storey building, with two chimneys on the tiled roof. Behind a dry stone wall with a bougainvillea growing on it lay the overgrown flower garden. Luxuriantly blooming beauty, the scent of roses. Insects hummed, butterflies fluttered from blossom to blossom. Sparrows chittered in the mighty linden tree next to the door. Wild doves cooed somewhere.

The neighbour came on his bicycle, introduced himself as Tyler O'Rourke and showed them the house. It had stood empty for several weeks already. An elderly couple had lived there last, the wife had died, the husband moved into a retirement flat. O'Rourke had taken on the task of giving interested parties a tour. 

The house was unusually well maintained and equipped. The ground floor had an open plan, with untreated natural stone walls, exposed oak ceiling beams, and a fireplace. The kitchen was separated from the living area by a waist-high wall and was equipped with a modern woodburning stove. In the back part of the house – obviously a later addition – there was a toilet and two smaller rooms, maybe a workshop and pantry. Upstairs two rooms and a bath. A view of the orchard, behind that endless meadows, fields, dark patches of forest. A stream meandered through the green, a narrow band of silver. John took it all in silently while Sherlock discussed the infrastructure, neighbourhood, condition of the floors and the art of beekeeping with O'Rourke.

"Do you already live together?" O'Rourke asked, appearing to be gathering information on potential buyers.

"We're married," Sherlock replied simply before moving on to the next topic.

John shivered where he stood at the window, trying to imagine what the landscape would look like in winter. Sherlock's surprisingly unambiguous statement both touched and surprised him. He'd never heard those words come out of Sherlock's mouth before. At the same time, he saw that broad, flat expanse of land in front of him. Emptiness, across which the wind would blow unimpeded in the winter. Love and fear, the familiar and the foreign. The combination of impressions reminded him of the dream.

"John?" Sherlock placed a hand on his shoulder. "Let's go look at the garden."

John needed a moment to extricate himself from the entanglement of his emotions.

"Don't you like it?" Sherlock asked cautiously. 

"No, I do. It's lovely," John said, looking into the water-coloured eyes as a shadow flickered through them.

"But?"

John took a deep breath. "I don't know if our future is here, Sherlock," he answered honestly.

"Nothing's decided yet. We can still say no."

"I know. Thank you."

They went down the wooden stairs without speaking. O'Rourke was already waiting to show them the surroundings. A sizable piece of land came with the house. Most of it was leased to the neighbouring farmer for grazing and farming. The former vegetable patch between low rubblework walls lay fallow. The flower garden had expanded into it and started to take it over. The raspberry bush had claimed the entire back portion, a satisfactory abundance of plump berries, amidst them white blossoms being tended to by bees. The trees in the orchard were old but well cared for, professionally pruned. The first apples had already fallen and lay gleaming red in the sun-kissed grass. John picked one up, bit into it. It had a strong, sweet flavour.

"If you decide you want the house soon, you'll get this year's harvest into the deal," O'Rourke said.

John nodded pensively. His eyes met Sherlock's, lingering there for a moment. Tyler O'Rourke smiled.


	3. The King of France

It had been difficult for John to give up his practise. A young married couple, both doctors, had bought it from him; she was a GP, he was a homeopath. John used the money to renovate the cottage. The bathroom facilities needed updating, it was time for new wood floors in both upstairs rooms, and the windows were in need of better insulation. Sherlock had drawn up a plan of the house, but there was no discussion about who would get which room. Sherlock took the larger room in the upper storey, John the smaller one. They kept things exactly the same as on Baker Street: Sherlock's double bed was their shared sleeping space, while John's single served as a place to withdraw to. They put their old furniture into the generous living space and pretty soon it looked like their living room in London, just a little more rustic.

They moved in at the beginning of winter. Lestrade and Molly helped with the move, and the new neighbour, Tyler O'Rourke, and his family lent a hand as well. His wife, Elsie, cooked for everyone, their youngest hanging off her apron. The two middle ones raced around the house, the older daughter helped carry things and put together furniture. It was a rainy day. As night fell, a thick fog settled over the countryside. They lit the fire in the hearth and enjoyed the first evening in the company of both old friends and new. Then Molly and Lestrade drove back to London, and the O'Rourkes returned to their own house.

John and Sherlock stayed behind alone. They sat reclined in their armchairs in front of the fire, their legs stretched out, silently drinking the single malt scotch Lestrade had brought. It had a faintly smoky flavour and a rich aroma, like dried fruit perhaps, a hint of vanilla. The fire crackled, casting a flickering light on the scene. A pleasant warmth filled the room. They gazed into the flames, both of them lost in their own thoughts. They were dog tired.

"Thank you, John," Sherlock said eventually into the stillness, warm and quiet.

John looked up in surprise. Sherlock sat there, absentminded, turning his glass pensively where he'd set it on the armrest of his chair. He was fingering the smooth material, the tendons playing in his hand. He rested there as if poured into his chair, soft and relaxed, his hair tousled from the unaccustomed day's work. The light of the fire danced on his face. It was one of those moments in which John knew he loved this man. More than he would ever comprehend.

"What are you thanking me for?" John asked.

Eyes as pale as water found his. The pupils wide, filled with emotion. Sherlock's forehead creased for a moment, maybe he wanted to answer. But then he didn't. They just looked at each other. A long time. Their gazes open. Sombre. Moved. They didn't need any words. They both knew. Knew each other.

They went upstairs a little later. The new shower worked perfectly. They crawled into Sherlock's bed in the midst of shelving, bags, moving boxes and crates. The upstairs rooms weren't set up yet. A bare bulb hung from the ceiling. When they turned it off, it was pitch black. Pitch black and utterly silent. No cars, no subway, no people, no street lights, no blinking neon signs. Nothing. Absolute blackness. 

John lay on his back staring into the darkness. Sherlock rummaged around in the blanket and pillows beside him, wrapped himself up and turned away. John listened to the impenetrable darkness. Sherlock breathing. The high-pitched humming was his own blood in his ears, he knew that. It wasn't coming from outside. Outside was just the quiet splashing of the water in the trough behind the house, muted by the heavy fog. No birdsong, no snapping of twigs, no footsteps, no metallic sounds. John took a deep breath, unsettled. No, wrong film. Damn it all! He was in Sussex. Not in Afghanistan. Afghanistan, still Afghanistan. The trauma. Deep black, dangerous, inscrutable nights of the new moon. Absolute silence. Then suddenly a faint snap from nearby, the clink of metal and directly afterward a hail of fire, a split second later, unexpected. The impact of a grenade. Screams. Blood. Carnage. Death.

Sherlock had turned back around. A warm stream of breath at John's ear. Familiar smell. John closed his eyes and tried to relax. He felt for Sherlock under the blanket. A firm, wiry hand closed around his and held onto it. It was fine, everything was fine. Just a little different. They'd moved to the country, that was all. Sussex. A new phase of their life. It was all right. They were together. They'd gotten old. They couldn't chase down criminals until they were eighty. It had to end sometime. Keeping bees. Taking care of the garden. Harvesting apples. Why not? He'd get used to it.

 

***

 

The following day started out nice enough. It had stopped raining, and the fog dissipated bit by bit. John and Sherlock had slept in and had just sat down at the kitchen table with their breakfast tea when an unfamiliar four-by-four drove up outside on the gravel driveway. A couple of seconds later, someone knocked at the door. John got up and opened it. The woman was pale, her jacket dirty and smeared with blood.

"Dr Watson? Tyler O'Rourke said you're a doctor. My husband tripped and fell into the harrow."

John swallowed down his toast. "Where is he?"

"In the car."

Two minutes later, the farmer was sitting in the kitchen. John cut away the blood-soaked shirt and used hot water to clean the upper arm that had been pierced by the harrow. He fetched his doctor's bag from where it stood amongst the moving boxes in his room, gave the man an injection of painkillers, and disinfected the wound.

"Don't you have a doctor around here?" John asked as he bandaged the arm.

"Dr Halsey's in Dallington. My husband would have lost a lot of blood by the time we got there."

"That's true. If the wound gives you any trouble, though, please see Dr Halsey."

"We will. Thank you, Dr Watson. What do we owe you?"

"Nothing. I'm not in practise any longer."

The two of them left. John washed up, cleared the medical paraphernalia away from the kitchen. Sherlock had taken his tea and withdrawn to the living room as soon as the visitors had arrived. He sat in front of his laptop and grinned when John sat down next to him.

"Once a doctor, always a doctor," he teased without looking up.

"Shut up, Sherlock," John replied affectionately before setting about checking his email and blog too.

The blog was bursting with comments on the announcement that Sherlock Holmes had retired and would in future be leading a peaceful life as a beekeeper in Sussex.

"Most of them think you've earned a bit of peace and quiet and send congratulations," John said as he clicked through the comments. "A few think it's a shame you're not conducting investigations anymore. And a lot of them are wondering who's going to solve the impossible cases now. Oh! And someone's actually written that they don't believe you've really given it up."

"Let them talk," Sherlock answered.

He didn't seem very interested. He was absorbed in some data or other. After some time, during which John worked on a new blog entry, a text came in on Sherlock's phone. Sherlock read it and then said calmly, if unexpectedly, "Mycroft wants to see me."

"Mycroft? Why does he want to see you? He can call or email."

"No idea. He'll want something from me. He's picking me up."

"Excuse me?"

Sherlock checked the clock.

"He'll be here in about two hours."

"Sherlock! We just moved in yesterday! You can't be serious about letting him drag you right back to London."

"We're retired, John. We have all the time in the world. I'll be back tomorrow evening at the latest."

"Can't it wait? We haven't even set up our rooms yet."

Sherlock shrugged, saying as he continued to click around on his laptop: "You know him. Once he has his mind set on something..."

John closed his laptop and got up, snorting indignantly. He paced back and forth a few steps in front of Sherlock before grousing, "I don't like this, Sherlock. He can't just snap his fingers and have you scupper off."

"He's my brother, John."

"Then he should act like a brother and not like the king of France."

Sherlock looked up. "He IS the king," he said seriously. "Not of France, but of the British security agency."

"He's retired."

"A likely story," Sherlock sneered.

"Exactly, Sherlock," John said angrily, pointing his finger forcefully at his friend. "That's exactly what I don't like."

Gravel crunched under the tyres of a car on the driveway outside. John and Sherlock both looked up, glanced out the window. It was the four-by-four the farmer's wife had brought her husband in an hour before. The woman got out, leaving the car door open. She deposited something by the door and drove away again. John and Sherlock looked at each other, nonplusssed. John went to the door and opened it. There was a ten-kilo sack of potatoes and two glass jars of applesauce.

 

***

 

Mycroft didn't come himself. He just sent a car and chauffeur to pick Sherlock up. Sherlock didn't take anything with him, not even his laptop. A sign that he wasn't going to be gone long. That placated John a bit. Sherlock hugged him before going out to the waiting limousine, hugged him tenderly and longer than expected, ran his hand through John's hair and kissed him gently if briefly on the mouth.

"See you soon," he said, affection in his voice.

"Take care of yourself, Sherlock."

Sherlock winked at him before getting in. The car drove away. The gravel of the driveway crunched beneath the tyres. John stood in the doorway and raised his hand half-heartedly in a parting gesture.


	4. The Assignment

John poured himself a whiskey, took a sip. He wasn't calm enough to sit in front of the fire with his glass, instead pacing up and down in the living room, looking out the window into the pitch black night in the hope that the headlamps of a car would show up. It was past 11 p.m. and Sherlock wasn't back yet. John had been waiting all day. 

_I'll be back tomorrow evening at the latest._

Sherlock wasn't responding to the texts John had sent him. Calls to his mobile went directly to voice mail. John had left two or three messages, asking for him to call back. Sherlock hadn't replied. John had also left a voice mail for Mycroft. Radio silence there as well.

John was well aware of how useless it was to wait for Sherlock. It didn't change anything whether he went to bed or wandered around the living room. John took the piece of paper he'd laid on the table and looked at the two pictures again. He'd wanted to ask Sherlock about them, about the pictures and where they came from. The top one showed part of a sparsely furnished flat. A heater. To the right a window. An old wooden table with a cup on it, cut off on the left an old-fashioned gas cooker. The bottom picture was of a pre-fabricated highrise, taken from the vantage point of an empty field that dominated the entire foreground. Churned up soil, a construction site. There was a scattering of snow on the ground, which looked to be frozen, the sky grey. Someone had copied both images onto a single sheet, printed it out, an old computer printout, the colours faded. Something was written underneath, handwritten, ball point pen. It was in Cyrillic.

John had found the paper when organising the file cabinet. It had been on top of a pile of papers that Sherlock had carelessly dumped into one of the moving boxes. John had noticed it right away. He'd dreamed of it. Of this very flat. Of the naked cold. Of these pictures. And he remembered that evening at Baker Street a few weeks earlier. Sherlock had been writing on his laptop, the page beside him. John had examined the pictures and asked Sherlock whether it was a new case.

"Old stuff," Sherlock had answered without slowing down his typing.

John had glanced at Sherlock's screen and been surprised to see that he was typing in Cyrillic. Fluently. He appeared to be writing something in a Russian email program.

"Do you have Russian pen friends?" John had asked.

Sherlock had laughed. "No. Mycroft and I sometimes correspond in Russian to keep in practise."

"What does this say?" John had pointed at the handwritten text beneath the two photos.

"An address," Sherlock had replied.

John had dreamed of that. A combination of astonishment and fear. He had been unsettled by the fact that Sherlock was writing in Russian, and that he'd had no idea about it. So many years of living together, and he hadn't known that Sherlock could communicate in Russian. It had shocked him. And that hint of mistrust. Burbling up like a dark cloud out of the depths of his subconscious. Who was Sherlock? Had he fallen for him the way he had for Mary, a secret agent with multiple kills on her record, and he simply hadn't noticed anything? He'd married her and not even known her name. Had he spent his life – nearly his entire life by now – with a man he didn't know?

John lowered himself to his armchair before the fire with his whiskey glass, staring into the flames. A couple of seconds later he got up again, set the glass on the mantlepiece and added more wood to the fire. He was too nervous to stay seated, went into the kitchen and put water on for tea. He had a full day behind him. A woman had been at the door first thing that morning with a girl who'd fallen off her bike on the way to school and broken her arm. He'd put a splint on the arm, tended to her wounds, and sent the woman to Dr Halsey in Dallington. A little while later, the woman had brought him some apple juice and a loaf of wood fired bread. Early that afternoon, Dr Halsey had come to the door, a large middle-aged man, red hair, alert hazelnut-brown eyes, friendly face.

"I've just come from a home birth at the Reids' and thought I'd drop in," he'd said. "I heard you're a doctor."

John had asked him in and they'd drunk tea together and discussed how they could work together. Or rather: Dr Halsey had ambushed John, saying he was urgently in need of help and would be grateful if John could take some patients off him.

"I don't have a surgery anymore. I'm actually retired," John had answered.

"You can work officially through my practise and order materials and medicine through me. Kind of a branch office."

John had promised to think about it. The offer was tempting, but he wanted to keep his working hours limited. Two days a week. Maximum. And emergencies. Dr Halsey was overjoyed. He said he was grateful for any patient out this way that John could take care of.

"You live here with your wife?" Dr Leo Halsey had asked once John had promised to give him an answer within seven days.

"With my partner."

"Oh. You live with a man."

"Is that a problem for you?"

"No. Quite the opposite."

They'd drunk their tea, John had set out some biscuits, and Dr Halsey had admitted, startlingly: "That's kind of my secret dream, you know. To live with a man."

"Why don't you?"

"There are at least two very good reasons," Halsey had answered thoughtfully. "First of all, I met my wife and had three darling daughters before I realised what I wanted. I love my children more than anything and would never leave them, not for anything."

"And the second reason?"

"I haven't met the right man yet," Dr Halsey said shyly. "But it's probably better that way, don't you think?" A bitter smile in the doe-brown eyes. 

John had thought, unchecked, 'You'd better not fall in love with Sherlock!'

But then Halsey had explained, "It's a lovely dream but it's going to stay one. I get by quite well. It spares me any disappointments."

And with that, the topic was closed and Dr Halsey had left a few minutes later.

 

***

 

Shortly past midnight. John had made tea, only to realise he didn't want any. Where was Sherlock? John tried to reach Sherlock's mobile once more. Voice mail again. He wrote a text:

_Sherlock, please! I'm worried. JW_

Waited. Took a sip of whiskey. The darkness outside. No headlamps, no car. No gravel crunching beneath any tyres. John entered Mycroft's number, let it ring for a long time. No voice mail. Good. Very good!

"Holmes." Mycroft's voice sounded annoyed.

"Mycroft, where's Sherlock?"

"John! Do you know what time it is?" A reproachful tone.

"Fourteen minutes past midnight. Where is Sherlock?"

"How should I know? I'm not his nanny."

"You sent for him!"

"I did what?"

"You summoned him to London and had him picked up here. So where is he?"

"There must be some misunderstanding, John."

"Your car drove out here and picked Sherlock up. Where precisely is the misunderstanding?"

"I didn't summon him," Mycroft said.

"What then?"

"Listen, John. Clear this matter up with Sherlock. I have nothing to do with it."

And before John could respond, Mycroft rang off. John called the number right back.

"John. It's past midnight!" Mycroft scolded him when he answered.

"Mycroft." John tried to remain friendly. "I'm worried about Sherlock. He was going to be back sometime today and he's not here, his phone's turned off and he's not responding to texts."

Mycroft snorted on the other end of the line. "And you don't know where he went?"

"No. He said you needed him. I assumed he went to see you."

"I see, you assumed."

"Damn it, Mycroft! Do you know where he is?"

There was silence for a long moment on the other end. Then Mycroft asked abruptly, "Did Sherlock not tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

Mycroft took an audible breath. "I won't be put in a position where I'm between a rock and a hard place, Dr Watson," he said forbiddingly.

"For the love of God, where is Sherlock!" John shouted into the telephone, and Mycroft said disparagingly, "Get yourself together, John! He'll be back. He's always returned to you before, hasn't he?" He sounded so disgusted that John had to check himself before he yelled at Mycroft.

Instead, he said as neutrally as possible, "Tell me where he is, Mycroft."

"I'm sorry, John. I'm not at liberty to divulge any information on that point," Mycroft replied, just as neutrally.

John thought Mycroft would end the call there, but he didn't. John could hear Mycroft breathing through the connection, so he asked, "Can you give me a tip? Just a tip. Please."

"Sherlock is in no immediate danger," Mycroft said.

"Is he in London?"

"No. Give him some time. He'll be back."

"He's taking care of an assignment for you, isn't he? Where?"

Mycroft didn't answer.

"Mycroft?"

"Good night, John." Click. Mycroft had ended the call.

John swore. He swore and paced restlessly around the living room. He had no hint as to where Sherlock might have gone. He tried to convince himself that Mycroft was right. Sherlock had gone away many times, had taken care of business for the secret service, usually somewhere in the East. Smaller things, most times. He'd never stayed away for long. And yes, sometimes he'd turned off his phone, sometimes he'd even left it in London and got another one from his brother, an anonymous one. Sherlock had always been afraid someone might make a connection to John and use it to put pressure on him. John had stayed in London those times, unhappily, but in the knowledge that Sherlock would be back. That Mycroft's people would watch out for him, would protect him out there. He'd worked in the surgery and the days had gone by and Sherlock had come back. Somtimes, then, he'd seen to Sherlock's injuries, a sign that the mission had been dangerous. He hadn't asked. And Sherlock hadn't been forthcoming.

This time was different. There was no information on Sherlock's mission. No call, no text as in the past. _John, I'm in Chechnya for a couple of days. Back Wed._ And then he'd really been back on Wednesday. Always. Or he'd called from a phone box somewhere, or sent a text from an unknown number. _Taking longer, return Friday._

This time there was no information at all. Mycroft's reaction was odd as well. John didn't know what to do. Go to sleep and wait another day? Drive over to Mycroft's and twist his thumbs? Call Lestrade? John decided to take the first route. He'd wait one more day. No, maybe not the whole day, but at least tonight. He'd make a decision tomorrow. Maybe Sherlock wasn't in a position to make contact. And Mycroft had said Sherlock was in no immediate danger, so he knew where Sherlock was. That was something at least. Mycroft would keep an eye on his brother. Best keep calm.


	5. 582D

The force of the cold tore the air out of John's lungs as he exited the airport terminal. He stopped short, overwhelmed by the painful bite of the frost. The digital readout over the door showed the local time in Yakutsk and a temperature of -34 degrees Celsius. John went back inside behind the glass door, wrapped his scarf around his neck and face, tugged the hood of his parka up, and pulled the zipper all the way up. Gloves. He didn't have much hand luggage, just slung the duffel bag over his shoulder and stepped outside again.

The taxi driver nodded when John held the piece of paper out to him and indicated he didn't understand a word of what was said. The taxi stank of alcohol and perspiration. John leaned back against the torn upholstery of the back seat and stared out at the surreal cityscape. Frozen to high heaven. Big, desolate, cold. 

John had gone to see Mycroft two days earlier and put the pressure on, twisted his arm behind his back and forced his torso down onto his desk. It hadn't been a problem. Mycroft was a thinker, unsure when it came to using his body. John was a soldier, even now. Still fit, he'd made sure of that. Mycroft had given him this address, noted it down in Cyrillic: Andrej Igorovich Sorokin, somewhere in an outlying district of Yakutsk.

The street was full of iced-over potholes, rubbish lay on the side of the road. The taxi stopped in front of a block of flats. John couldn't say whether it was the building he'd seen in the photograph. All of the buildings around here looked alike. Huge, neverending pre-fabricated highrises, one more seedy than the next. It smelled of smoke and propane. John could read the house number above the door because it was written in Arabic numerals. That was helpful. He was here. At least the house number was right. 582 plus a Cyrillic letter. John had looked it up, it was D. 582D. 

The taxi driver took the crumpled bank note that John held out to him and gave him a handful of other crumpled bank notes in return. John stuffed them into the pocket of his jacket without checking them. No one on the street. The door to 582D was unlocked. 

John took the stairs up. The smell of chlorine and food. He didn't know where this Andrej Igorovich lived, he couldn't read the labels on the doors, where there even was one. He rang at the nearest door. The doorbell didn't work so he knocked. When nothing happened, he called out while knocking harder, "Hello. Is anyone home? Hello!"

The neighbour's door opened. A young woman spoke to him in Russian. John showed her the piece of paper with the address. She read it, then talked at him, gesticulating. She held up four fingers and pointed upstairs, then waved dismissively and indicated with scrabbling fingers that he'd left. John nodded, and in answer to his question of where Andrej Igorovich might be now, she signed that she needed something to write with. 

John dug out a pen, and the woman wrote a new address on the back of his paper, tapping it with her finger. John thanked her but went up to the fourth floor anyway and checked the labels on the doors. One of them matched. John knocked and rang the bell. Nothing. He tried the doorknob. The flat was locked.

John went back out to the street, walked through the cold. There was no taxi anywhere to be found. The street was completely empty. John walked quickly, hunched over to protect his face. He'd wrapped his scarf around his mouth and nose and pulled his hood down as far over his face as it would go. The stiff wind blew icy air at him. Block after block of flats. Grey and unwelcoming. He walked towards the city centre. He'd run into people sometime, find the downtown area and a taxi. And he'd find this Andrej Igorovich eventually, face to face, force him to take John to Sherlock. John was determined. It was the reason he'd flown here. He needed to find him. And he was going to find him. He wouldn't give up. Never. There hadn't been any sign of life from Sherlock for days now. Something had happened. John walked as if in a trance. Siberia. He was disconcerted by the surreality of what he was doing, and he only realised now how alone he was without Sherlock at his side, how lost he was in this strange, frigid place.

The address turned out to be a hospital. People sent him from one street to the next. No taxi in sight. John walked. Dusk was coming on and the temperature had sunk even further by the time he finally stood in front of the pompous but crumbling portal of the clinic. The woman at the reception desk wrote the number 209 on the paper John held out to her, and John walked up the bleak stairway to the second floor. The familiar scent of disinfectant. Hospitals smelled the same everywhere. 

John's legs were frozen through and climbing the stairs hurt. People in white doctor's coats came toward him, chatting amongst themselves. At the top a long corridor, beds shoved to one side here and there, medical equipment, staff members coming out of some rooms and disappearing again into others. 

John followed the arrow pointing toward 201-230 and ended up in a side corridor. He walked a few steps. Then he stopped in his tracks. All the way at the end of the corridor stood a man at the window, his back turned, talking into a mobile phone. He was speaking rapidly in Russian, but John knew that voice. He knew the voice and the tall figure in the thick down parka. 

Sherlock.

John stopped in his tracks, dumbfounded. He'd expected anything but this. Not for Sherlock to be standing in a hospital, right as rain, talking on the phone. Sherlock turned around. He seemed to freeze up just like John had. He ended the call immediately, walked toward John and stopped in front of him.

"John," he said incredulously. "What are you doing here?"

"Looking for you."

"You can't. You need to leave. Fly back to London, John. As quickly as possible."

"No."

"How did you know where I was?"

"Mycroft."

"You need to go back, John. Please."

A young man had approached from down the hall. A deep blue, inquisitive look brushed over John. The man exchanged a few low words with Sherlock, hugged him warmly, kissed him on both cheeks. Sherlock said something to him, gentle, and the man disappeared into room 209.

John watched the scene in dismay. The interaction between Sherlock and the man, the closeness, the obvious intimacy between the two of them, cut into his gut like a scythe.

"Who's that?"

"Do you have the address of the flat?" Sherlock asked, ignoring John's question.

John dug out the piece of paper and showed it to Sherlock, who nodded.

"Go there and wait for me."

Sherlock felt around in his parka and took out a key, held it out to John: "Fourth floor, first flat on the left. I'll join you later."

John stared at Sherlock's hand with the key. He was unable to lift his own hand. He was paralysed. His legs began to shake. It took all his strength to remain standing. Sherlock was wearing a ring. A plain gold ring. On his fourth finger.

"You're wearing a wedding ring," John said, in shock.

"Take the key, John."

Ice-blue eyes bored coolly into his. John took the key, put it into his jacket pocket.

"What is all this, Sherlock? Who was that man?"

"John. You can't be seen here. Go to the flat. Please."

"No. I want to know what's going on here first."

The words came out hard and demanding, but inside John felt himself trembling, hoped Sherlock couldn't hear how dearly that tone cost him. 

Sherlock snorted and rolled his eyes. Then he grabbed John roughly by the bicep and dragged him quickly and indiscriminately into room 209.

It was a room with four beds. All of them occupied. The young man from before sat beside the bed all the way at the back. He looked up when Sherlock pulled John through the room. Questioning blue eyes looked John over. Sherlock spoke a few words to the young man, who nodded thoughtfully.

"This is my son, Sergej Andrejovich," Sherlock said to John.

John stared into the dark blue eyes of the young man for a moment. He grabbed hold of the metal bar at the foot of the hospital bed. His legs threatened to betray him. He was unable to understand what he'd heard. It was like a bad movie. Unreal. For a long moment, John thought he was dreaming, that he'd be able to wake up somehow. But then Sherlock pointed at the figure lying in the bed and said, "This is my wife, Irina Michailova."

John turned his head. It took a huge effort. It was as if something had blocked his brain, turned it off, placed a barrier between what was happening and what he was able to process. A woman lay in the bed, thin and pale, wrapped in white bandages and sheets. She was hooked up to several lines, her eyes were closed and her respiration was shallow and irregular. John knew just by looking that her chances of survival were less than fifty percent. He also recognised her. It was Irene Adler. It was still possible to see the beauty in her, her even features, despite the dry lips, sallow skin, and sunken face. Her hand lay limply on top of the sheet. 

John stared distraught at the one thing he'd never expected and certainly never, ever wanted to see in his lifetime. Like a chisel, reality hammered the knowledge into his consciousness, slowly and with destructive precision: Sherlock was married to Irene Adler and had a grown son. 

John choked on his nausea, but swallowed it down with effort.

"Since when?" he asked, his voice scratchy and thick.

"The two years I was dead to you," Sherlock answered, soft and careful.

"Half a lifetime," John whispered, more to himself than Sherlock.

A shudder ran through his body. He turned away, ponderous, as if tonnes of weight were hanging off him. Everything hurt. John held onto the bed for a moment longer, then straightened and walked through the room to the door. He needed to focus, keep focused on the door. Everything was swept clean inside him. The upset of the shock had made way for an unreal chill that filled him up, in which the knowledge manifested with crystalline clarity that this was the end of everything. That he was not just leaving the room at this moment, but his entire life up to that point.

John walked down the corridor, down the stairs, and out of the hospital. Perhaps he'd hoped Sherlock would follow him, bring him back. But that didn't happen. John's heart broke there, in the terrible cold of that young night; his life with Sherlock broke too, broke away from him like an unbearably cold block of ice that you hacked at with all your might to get it off and allow you to survive. Amputate the mangled leg, with knife and saw, fast, before the infection set in, the only choice to endure the pain or die quickly. Stay strong. Stay upright. The all-consuming cold outside. Frost inside. Loneliness bored into John, shaking him. He stopped walking, forced himself to stop shivering, tried to breathe. 

An old woman who had come out of the clinic right behind him held an open bottle of vodka out under his nose. John took it and drank. Not just one sip, but several. The liquid burned and warmed him. John returned the bottle. He reached into his jacket, pulled out a bank note, but the old woman waved it off, murmured something, a cloud of steam in front of her face, and tottered off. John watched her go, a dark, bent figure, woollen blanket pulled over her head and shoulders, a slow, limping gait. She was swallowed up by the grim night.

There were cars standing at the main portal of the hospital. John asked for a taxi to take him to the airport, but no one understood what he wanted. It was piteously cold. Finally, John showed a man the paper with the address on it, and he drove him back to the highrise. 582D.


	6. The Measure of Truth

The flat had a single room, was pitch dark and cold. The neon ceiling lamp cast it in a garish light. Someone had nailed a woollen blanket to a wooden slat to cover the window, providing both shade and insulation. A single table with two chairs. The smell of onions and cabbage. A gas cooker with a pot on it. John lifted the lid. A red soup. Borscht. A gas heater next to the window. John lit it. The blue gas flame spread around the ring with a dull pop. John set it to maximum so that the fireclay stones would heat up. In one corner the bed, unmade. Narrow. For one person. A cupboard. A small bookcase, around a dozen books, all Cyrillic. Next to that an armchair and reading lamp. John didn't turn it on, left the neon light. 

He sat down in the chair, still in his parka, and closed his eyes. There was nothing left. Everything was empty. His heart. His soul. His mind. John retreated all the way into that emptiness and stayed there. It was the only thing he was capable of doing. He was exhausted and confused and felt sick. The pungent, alcoholic flavour of the vodka was still in his mouth, acidifying in his stomach. He felt nauseous and dizzy.

John got up to look for the toilet. There wasn't one in the flat. He went out into the hallway, down to the mezzanine where there was a narrow door. The toilet was dirty and stank of fecal matter. The smell alone was enough. John vomited, gagging. He hadn't eaten anything in a while. The vodka burned in his oesophagus and mouth. John shuddered in disgust, spat and coughed. His body cramped and salivated. He couldn't stop, even when nothing more came up but bitter slime. It was as if his body wanted to tear out its organs, retch them out, and wouldn't give up until he was nothing but the empty husk he felt like. The cramps hurt like hell. John was on the verge of fainting. Tears ran down his face. He tried to calm his breathing, to stop the panicky reaction of his body. There was nothing left to bring up. Nothing physical anyway. He needed to stop, it needed to stop. Now. He couldn't have a nervous breakdown like this. He couldn't weaken his body.

Someone knocked at the door, said something in Russian. John stood up, supporting himself on the wall. He flushed, took a moment to collect himself, then left the room. The man in front of the door grumbled as John went past him.

Sherlock came eventually. John had no sense of time and he didn't care. Didn't care whether Sherlock came or not. He still sat there cowering in the armchair, his eyes closed, floating in the emptiness. He didn't want to see anything. Not Sherlock, not the flat, not reality. Sherlock locked the door behind himself, dialed back the gas heater a little, which was by now radiating warmth. John heard him taking off his jacket and shoes. It was quiet for a few seconds, he could hear Sherlock breathing. He was probably observing him. John was afraid Sherlock was going to speak to him, but he didn't. Fiddling with the cooker. The hiss of gas. Pot lid. Faucet. Plates being put onto the table, utensils. After a while the sound of water starting to boil. Pot lid. Stirring. The smell of soup.

"John?" A soft, gentle voice. "There's soup. Come, sit at the table."

John didn't answer, refused to acknowledge Sherlock. It was good in the emptiness he'd settled into, the only thing he could bear. Complete withdrawal into himself.

"You need to eat something, John. You won't be able to withstand the cold otherwise."

Something stirred deep down, beneath the emptiness. John felt it as clear as day. He couldn't stand the sound of Sherlock's voice. It grated on his raw nerves, triggered a fresh bout of nausea. He wasn't empty. How could he have thought he was! He was filled with a compressed mixture of gases, heavy, stable, and pressurised. It crowded out everything else and lurked inside him like a cold, motionless lake, from whose depths a tiny bubble rose as soon as Sherlock started talking. And John realised right away that a single spark would suffice. A single spark and that mixture of gases would explode.

"John."

The touch on his arm affected John like lightning on dry tinder.

"Leave me be!"

John thought he had roared it, but it was only a growl. A cold, dangerous growl. Sherlock flinched back, startled. John's insane realisation that he was no longer in control of what happened next. That forlorn, resigned, fearful knowledge was the last lucid thought he had. Then lava shot into his head, stopped up his ears with its heavy pressure, poured his eyes full of red, made his heart froth up, his hands glow with energy, forming into fists. John thought he felt the heat of Sherlock's body in front of him, an intolerable provocation. He jumped up, blind, and struck out. Without any warning. Slammed his fist into Sherlock's face. Sherlock staggered. Blood immediately spurted from his nose. He fell against the wall and as he sank back, another blow struck him in the stomach. Sherlock curled up, and John grabbed him by the neck before he slid to the floor, shoved him up against the wall with both hands, choking him. Sherlock wheezed. His pale eyes wide open and in shock. 

John snorted. He could kill him. Easily. He felt the strength in his hands, his arms, his body. He stood with both feet firmly on the floor. He could just press until Sherlock's larynx and hyoid collapsed. Not let go until the body in his hands fell limp. Sherlock had put his hands on top of John's and was pulling at them. The gold ring on the slender hand right in front of John's face only served to harden his resolve and lend John additional strength. Sherlock had no chance.

"I'm not letting you go," John said, his voice hard and cold as steel, "until you've told me everything or you're dead. Or both."

Sherlock gurgled. His lips turned blue, his eyes bugged out, his hands slipped away from John's and fell to his sides. John loosened his grip and let him go. Sherlock sank to the floor. John went to the door of the flat, took the key out and put it into his trouser pocket. Then he washed Sherlock's blood from his hands at the faucet of the kitchen sink. The flat had only cold water.

 

***

 

It took half an hour before Sherlock recovered enough to struggle to his feet and wash his face. His nose had stopped bleeding. He dragged himself to the table, where the soup and both plates still stood, sat down and covered his face with his hands. John had withdrawn to the armchair again. Now he stood up and sat down across from Sherlock.

"Did you live here with her?" he asked. "Here in this flat?"

"This is my flat," Sherlock responded weakly, without taking his hands away from his face. "Irina never lived here. She lives her own life."

"You married her!"

"It was the only way to prevent her extradition to Pakistan quickly enough. She would have been executed there."

"Did you love her?"

Sherlock was quiet for a long time. Then he said, pained, "I don't know. I was fascinated by her intelligence and lack of scruples."

"You have a son with her," John said relentlessly.

The resentment was so present and unforgiving that Sherlock lifted his head and peered over his fingertips for a brief moment. An uncertain, jittery look in John's direction.

"I'm not Sergej's biological father," Sherlock said dully. "Irene got him from an orphanage when he was ten. He's extremely gifted. She saw to it that he studied engineering and got into the ISS programme. She's used him for her schemes."

"You're officially his father. That means you signed the adoption papers."

"Yes."

John hissed. He stood up, incapable of remaining seated any longer, incapable of keeping his anger and rising bitterness under control any longer. He swept the plates off the table with unrestrained force. The ceramic shattered against the cooker. The spoon clattered dully on the linoleum floor. John walked back and forth, upset. He ran both hands over his face, tried to collect himself.

"I didn't live in a marriage with her, John," Sherlock said.

John banged his fist down on the table. "You're married to her!" he screamed wildly.

Sherlock fell silent. John watched him, snorting with rage, the way he sat there, his face buried in his hands again, sunk in on himself. Pale. The rough woollen pullover smeared with blood. The gold ring on his finger.

"And you're married to me too. Remember that?" John's voice was quiet now. The immediate presence of the grief he wasn't able to handle. Desolation. Nothing but the hiss of the gas heater in the stillness of the flat. A television was running somewhere.

"Did you fake your death back then so you could fly here and … save her?" John said the word 'save' with so much scorn that Sherlock shuddered.

"No. No, John. I travelled to Yakutsk as Andrej Sorokin, that much is true. But the part with Irene didn't come until six months later. I didn't leave for her."

"Then why?"

"To destroy Moriarty's network without being recognised. I told you that already."

"Yes, you've told me that several times. And you didn't keep me informed because I wouldn't have been able to play at grieving for you convincingly enough." Impatience in John's voice. "But I don't believe a single word you say anymore, Sherlock Holmes. And I want to know the truth now. The WHOLE truth."

John slammed his fist down on the table again. Angry. Sherlock closed his eyes.

"John," he pleaded.

John was so supercharged with anger that he reached across the table without hesitating for a second, snatched up Sherlock's right hand and twisted it inward until Sherlock lay across the wooden table in an attempt to escape the pain. John pushed Sherlock's two outermost fingers towards the back of his hand so hard that they threatened to snap.

"Please, John," Sherlock whispered, grimacing in pain. "Please let me go."

"I want the whole story," John growled. "Understood?"

"Yes."

John let go with a huff. Sherlock massaged his injured hand.

"I'm listening." John was implacable. 

"Moriarty gave me an ultimatum," Sherlock said quietly. "Either you or me. I'd suspected he was going to use you to put pressure on me, and prepared my death."

John flinched back. Then he swept away the flash of emotion. He'd fallen for Sherlock's tricks often enough. It was always the same ploy for sympathy.

"Fake death."

"Fake death, yes. I needed to go... away from you. You were in danger because of me. It never would have ended."

"Why did you come back then?" John asked coolly. 

Sherlock lifted his head. Tender, wounded, icy blue eyes sought John's. Silence reigned between them for the space of several heartbeats. John searched the familiar eyes. The eyes of his partner. He saw the hurt, no question, but he wasn't willing to respond to it.

"I don't want to hear anything about Mycroft bringing you back because of the subway attack. And don't try to tell me you missed me."

"I was afraid," Sherlock said softly, very softly. He'd lowered his eyes. "Mycroft told me that Mary..." Sherlock faltered and swallowed. Then he continued, with difficulty and just as soft: "Mary and you, you were going to get married. That wasn't part of the plan."

"Plan?" John was on high alert.

"Mary was there for your protection. I'd asked Mycroft..."

John felt the blood drain from his face. He stared at Sherlock, who had fallen silent in the middle of his sentence. Maybe because he'd seen John's reaction. It was deathly silent. Only the gas heater. And the television, somewhere in the building. Mary. Mary and the unborn baby. Something rose in John's craw. He was afraid he was going to throw up again, fought hard against the nausea. He'd lost his footing completely. Everything in his life, everything dissolved into a mirage that was slipping away underneath his feet.

"Mary's death?" John asked.

He was shaking. His voice was threatening to crack, was barely audible. Sherlock's pale eyes, filled with concern and fear. It wasn't good. John knew that, and he was scared of it. Scared of Sherlock's answer. He'd wanted the truth. Now he needed to endure it. It was hard. He was scared of himself. He didn't know himself anymore, didn't know what he might do. He wasn't safe from himself. He was prepared to kill Sherlock.


	7. Love, Power, and Doubt

The gas was turned off from midnight to 6 a.m. The flame in the heater went out. Sherlock stood up, closed the valve. They were still sitting at the table. John had put his head down on his arms, drained by the unbearable discussion. Exhausted.

He'd suspected the CIA was responsible for Mary's death. Mary and his unborn daughter. Mary, a rogue agent. Not an accident. Even if it had looked like one and no one had been able to prove otherwise. Sherlock's fears had come home to roost. Mycroft's people hadn't protected Mary. The connections between the intelligence agencies were too complex, any interference too delicate. Sherlock had broken his vow. He hadn't been able to protect her. Empty words. Worthless promises.

"Get in bed, John," said Sherlock. "It gets cold quickly in here. Come."

John let Sherlock shuffle him over to the bed, took off his shoes, trousers, jumper and shirt. He lay down, numb and overwhelmed, crawled under the blankets. Sherlock had already taken the key back to use the toilet, had forced him to eat some of the soup. John had let him. Sherlock's explanations had made sense, somehow, and ended up placating him after a while. Irene Adler was dying. The duplicity would end with her death. Sherlock's words ran circles in John's head.

_'Irene is married to Andrej Sorokin, not Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes was never here. There is no connection between Andrej and Sherlock and there can never be one, John. That's why you need to leave Yakutsk tomorrow. As soon as Andrej is no longer needed here, I'll join you. Completely and forever.'_

Maybe it was also Sherlock's pleading declaration of love that had finally reached John at some point during the course of the night at that table in Siberia.

_'I love you, John. That is the only truth I know. It's my life. I've shared it with you for all these years. Have you forgot that? I've tried to prove my love to you. Every day, every hour, every moment. If I haven't succeeded in that, then I beg your forgiveness.'_

_'Why didn't you ever say anything?'_

_'I wanted to tell you. But then the opportunity never arose and it became more and more difficult, and more and more dangerous. Irene was buying and selling confidential data from the ISS mission, and it became ever more important that no one be able to make a connection to me. It would have put everything at risk. Me, you, Mycroft, national security.'_

_'Mycroft knows you're Andrej?'_

_'Mycroft created the identity for me. Irene knows about it. And you, now. No one else.'_

_'Sergej?'_

_'He has no idea. To him, I'm a father who works abroad and is never here.'_

Sherlock locked the door to the flat, turned off the light. John scooted over next to the wall when Sherlock crawled in under the blanket with him, tugged his hat down over John's head and put another hat on himself. Sherlock pulled the blanket up to their necks, laid his arm across John's hip and nestled up against his back. John let him. It was the best way to combat the nighttime chill.

"Did our move to Sussex have anything to do with all of this here?" John asked before he fell asleep.

Sherlock didn't answer right away.

"It wasn't planned," he finally said, a warm stream of breath on the back of John's neck. "It just turned out that way. Sherlock Holmes retired and became a beekeeper. Your blog is full of it, the Times wrote an editorial. It's even worth a brief mention in the papers here. That gave me some space to set things in order here."

If John hadn't been so exhausted, he might have asked: what things? But he was too tired and dozed off.

 

***

 

John woke up when someone pulled the hat off his head. He was surrounded by warmth. Sherlock's breath at his nape, Sherlock's arm around his hip. Sherlock's fingers playing in his hair. John felt the nude body at his back. The heater was running. Sherlock must have turned it on. It was warm. It must be morning. The light was dim. John remembered the woollen blanket over the window.

"John."

A mere whisper at his ear, a warm puff of air. Sherlock inhaled deeply. A faint tremor in the outgoing stream of air flowing gently across John's neck. Sherlock's smell. A warm, firm hand combing through his hair, powerful and inquisitive at the same time. Sherlock's heart beat hot against his back. A heavy, shaky sigh on his neck. Sherlock's blossoming arousal spread over John like a blanket of energy. A net laid over him, cautious and shy. A net that spoke to each and every one of his nerve cells, his skin, his whole body. A fine sheen of vibrating passion. So matter-of-fact. So familiar. 

John shuddered. This profound intimacy. He wanted to say no. If he'd been asked, he would have said no. No! He would have shaken him off, cut him off, sawed him off, sent him packing. He didn't want to sleep with Sherlock. Not after what had happened. But no one asked him, and his body had already said yes before John could make a decision. Sherlock was there, cuddling up to him, seeking, and John's body knew him and accepted him. So close. So tight. So much trust. So bloody much home. 

John closed his eyes. He knew every move. The tenderness of the wiry hand feeling along his, looking for the way in under his t-shirt while hot lips caressed his neck. The heavy stream of breath. The scent of arousal. The pressure of the cock becoming hard against his thighs. The sigh. He knew the eyes without seeing them. Knew the blue, as pale as water, flooded with lust. Sherlock. John's heart beat toward him. He knew the man well, lying at his back with an impetuous heat, begging for him. He knew his smile, his love, his power. He knew his mental strength, that incredible intelligence, a match for any complication. And he knew the almost childish need of the difficult person who was his partner, knew his deep-seated yearning for warmth and affirming union. Union with him, with John.

John felt Sherlock's foot slipping in between his, the leg crowding in between his, hooking around them. So familiar. Sherlock, who pressed up even closer against him, rubbing against him with a soft moan. Sherlock's hand on John's bare skin under his t-shirt, his little finger brushing John's nipple. John knew it was hard. Hard as a rock. He closed his eyes. 

Sex was a tried-and-true means between them, they both knew that. A means of reconciliation and relaxation. Especially when words failed them, when the pressure became too great. Sometimes John didn't know anymore how they'd been able to stand being around each other before they'd found this way of being together. It was an irresistible path. They both knew the other one felt the same. 

John was breathing harder. He felt a tingling in his groin. Sherlock was waiting for him, he lifted his arm and reached behind him, into Sherlock's hair, dug in. Sherlock pushed his nose into the space behind John's ear, his breath hot and damp on John's skin. Sherlock's unexpected confession, late the previous night: _I can't sleep with women, John. My body doesn't react enough. I can only do it with you._

John removed his t-shirt from his body, slipped out of his underwear and turned toward Sherlock. Sherlock's hands went straight to his cheeks. His eyes wide and pale. His mouth open. His hair tousled. They'd known each other long enough. No words were necessary. Everything there was to say could be read in the other's eyes. A deep, loving, breathless gratitude. A thousand images behind it. And the pent-up lust that would crash down over them in just a moment. Unbridled.

John knew what Sherlock wanted and needed. And he knew what he wanted himself. The deep, tender kiss ignited their passion, fast and hard. They let it roll over them and sweep them along. Sherlock tore the blankets away from them, breathless. John dug his fingers into the cloth as Sherlock brought him to the brink of climax with his mouth and tongue, then entered him, both careful and impatient, and they collapsed against each other after just a few thrusts.

Sometimes things went quickly between them. The greater the tension, the faster. It was good like that. Good for both of them. It was what they knew. It was part of them, their way of making love. Those times when it wasn't a game, but bare necessity. At the urging of their bodies. Maybe of their souls. They caressed each other, satiated. Smiled into each other's eyes. So familiar. So much of home. John nipped at Sherlock's lips.

"Thief," he whispered.

"What have I stolen?"

"Me."

"I thought it was a gift."

A hint of lightheartedness. They smiled at each other. Their affectionate kiss was interrupted by a knock. Someone was at the door to the flat. Sherlock called out something in Russian. A male voice answered. Sherlock got up. He put on his pants and opened the door, just a crack, exchanged a few words with the man outside.

"Sergej," he said when he returned, his son apparently having left. "You need to get to the airport as soon as possible, John."

John knew then that they might have slept together, a well-rehearsed ritual of their link to each other over many years, but that didn't mean by a long shot that things were taken care of between them. Mistrust inundated him as he recalled the previous day. Had he fallen for Sherlock's tricks yet again? Was it so easy to get rid of him if your name was Sherlock, you were good at making an argument, and you had desperate sex on offer?

"Can I take a shower first?"

"The showers are in the cellar. There's hot water from six to ten every morning and evening. You're just in time."

Sherlock drew up the blanket over the window with tug on a cord. Grey daylight cowered beyond the steamed-up pane. John dressed silently, took a towel and soap out of his duffel. He had no intention of leaving Yakutsk before being absolutely sure that Sherlock had told the truth this time. The whole truth. If not, there was no way back for him. This was the last chance he was willing to give his partner. He didn't even want to think about what might come after that. They'd been together so long. John knew no one could pretend at love so long, through the drudgery of a day-to-day existence. Not even Sherlock. But what weight did love have when measured against the truth?

 

***

 

He'd trusted Mary. And then found out that even her name was a lie. He didn't know what her real name had been. Still didn't. Didn't want to know anymore. He'd burned the USB stick with her data. Maybe she'd been married, been a mother. Under another name, another identity. He didn't know that either. He'd loved her. And his love had been strong enough to overlook her past. To overlook the fact that she'd shot Sherlock and almost killed him. And now he was being so harsh and unforgiving toward Sherlock. Sherlock, who had stood by his side so many years longer than Mary had had the chance to. Sherlock, who had gone through so many adventures and crises and shared so much with him, so unbelievably much. So many proofs of his affection. Was he wrong? Was he so unforgiving because he loved Sherlock more than anything? Because this man tore him up inside? Had he been so generous to Mary because she'd never touched those depths? 

John sat on the bench of the departure terminal at the airport and brooded to himself. He hadn't looked at the flights. He couldn't leave. He couldn't leave because he couldn't leave Sherlock alone. That was the truth. His truth. He could hit him and choke him, but he couldn't leave him.

Sherlock had arranged for a taxi to take him to the airport.

"I'll be with you in Sussex soon," he'd whispered when he'd hugged him good-bye, before the eyes of the taxi driver, close and intimate.

John had other plans. He found a taxi driver at the airport who spoke some broken English and had him drive him to the hospital. He got a phone number where he could call for the driver and made sure the man was interested in earning a few rubles as a translator.


	8. The Other Side

John went straight to room 209. He opened the door carefully and peeked inside. Four beds with patients in them. They all seemed to be asleep. Hospital smell. No one else in the room. He went in, went over to the bed at the back. Irene Adler. John felt a pinch in his heart when he thought about meeting her the first time. She'd been naked, Sherlock had been fascinated by the provocation and impertinence. 

Her remark: 'Oh! Someone loves you.' 

His meeting with her in the warehouse. 'We're not a couple.' – 'Oh yes, you are.'

She'd known it before it had even become clear to them. And then there was Sherlock's lovesickness. Playing the violin all night long. Inconsolable.

Irene's shoulder-length hair still retained the chestnut brown colouring it had back then; probably dyed. It was bound to one side in a plait that lay across the pillow on the right side of her neck. A few strands of hair had come loose. It must have been plaited some time ago and not redone. Her chest and left shoulder were bandaged. Chest port at her collarbone, various IV bags. She was unconscious. John was about to lift the blanket to look for any more bandages when the door opened. He let the blanket go. 

It was an orderly. She nodded at him and went about working on another patient. John decided to leave the room and find the doctors' lounge to ask for the attending physician, find out what kind of injuries they were. There was sure to be someone in the hospital who spoke English. He decided to present himself as a doctor and friend of Irina's who'd flown here to help her.

He didn't get very far. Out in the corridor, he ran into Sergej, who was apparently on his way to see his mother. Blue eyes looked him over attentively. Then Sergej said in fluent English with only a slight accent, "You're a friend of my father's. Your name is John, if I remember correctly."

"And you're Sergej, Andrej's son," John replied to complete the ritual.

The young man smiled and held out his hand to John. "I'm pleased to meet you."

"Same here." 

John shook his hand. A firm, pleasant grip, bright smile in the deep blue eyes.

"Can I invite you for a coffee?" Sergej asked. "There's a cafeteria here. Nothing special, but the coffee is quite acceptable. You are from Great Britain, correct?"

John was aware that he was treading on thin ice. But the offer was so tempting that he couldn't turn it down. Sergej spoke English. If he played his cards right, he could get all the information from him that he was looking for.

The coffee did taste better than expected, and Sergej turned out to be quite open. He was in his mid-thirties, worked in Korolyov as an engineer on the Nauka module – the multipurpose laboratory module – for the ISS space station, and was in Yakutsk for a few days to say good-bye to his mother, he explained. Mostly, though, he was interested in his father and clearly hoped to get just as much information from John as vice versa.

"Do you work with my father?" Sergej asked.

Since John didn't know what Sherlock had told his son he was, he answered evasively, "I'm a doctor."

"Oh, then you know his laboratory?"

Laboratory? Hm. Sherlock was a chemist. It made sense that he'd also given himself that career as Andrej.

"Yes, we see each other in the lab now and then."

"Are you his friend?"

"You could say that." 

Sergej smiled. "You must be a good friend to fly here, to Andrej's dreary hometown."

"I'm just passing through," John lied. "And you? You must not see your father too often."

Sergej smiled pensively and shook his head. "No. Not really. I pretty much grew up in Moscow. I'm as much a stranger here as you are."

"Did you live with your mother in Moscow?"

Sergej smiled bitterly. "She lived all over the world," he said. "Sometimes in Moscow too. I grew up in a boarding school for gifted pupils. First-class address. She did that much for me at least."

"Doesn't sound very enthusiastic."

Sergej's blue eyes looked John over. "She took me out of that awful orphanage and provided me with a top-notch education. She paid for my schooling and got me this job with the international space agency. That's a lot for me, you know. I was a tormented orphan, now I am a made man with a future."

"And your father?" John asked.

Sergej looked at John, nonplussed. "My father? I was going to ask YOU that. You know him better than I do. I've hardly ever seen him. He was there for my adoption, he had to sign the papers. He sent money to me at school a few times, even though I didn't need it. My mother had plenty. He was there for my graduation in Moscow, and we spent a few days together. He came to my wedding last year. And now we have met again because my mother is here."

"What happened to your mother?" John asked.

"Don't you know? She was stabbed in plain sight out on the street, here in Yakutsk. A couple of days ago. My father let me know."

John fell silent. So that's how it was. Sherlock had known first. From whom? Mycroft? Or from the hospital? Were there other connections? They were both quiet, drank their coffee for a while, each lost in his own thoughts. 

Then Sergej said, out of the blue, "You're sleeping with my father, aren't you?"

John couldn't breathe for a moment. He thought he was going to tip right off the stool in a dead faint. His pulse was racing. His mouth went dry. It took a while for him to collect himself. To figure out what he should answer. Bloody hell! What did Sergej know?

"What makes you think that?" he finally asked, clearing his throat, his voice hoarse from the shock.

Sergej looked down into his coffee cup. The topic seemed to discomfit him, although he was the one who had brought it up.

"You didn't say no," he said soberly.

"What makes you think that?" John repeated his question, more demanding this time.

"You spent the night with him, here in Yakutsk. I know his flat. There is no room for two men. And there is a guest room in the house. You weren't in the guest room. And you are still here, and are visiting my mother, even though you wanted to fly onward."

John fell silent, troubled, didn't know what to make of that, what he should answer.

"You know, I already thought it was not just for work that my father went to Great Britain. Here in Siberia it is frowned upon, a man with a man. My mother knew it. Or suspected it. She sometimes made remarks along those lines."

Sergej's voice had become softer, musing. John was relieved that Sergej had no idea who his father really was in Great Britain. He was Andrej and remained Andrej. Sergej knew nothing of Sherlock.

"Do you know my mother?" Sergej asked.

John took a deep breath, closed his eyes for a moment and ran his hands over his face. Good God! What memories was Sergej going to dredge up. John probed inside himself and found that this conversation still felt right, in spite of all his doubts. It felt good to talk to someone about all these things. Someone who knew Sherlock from another side, as Andrej. It felt good to think about Sherlock and talk about him in this odd way.

"I met Irina many years ago," John replied. "She was a beauty. Andrej fell in love with her."

"So he did love her."

"Yes, he did," said John. He didn't have the heart to give any other answer.

"You've known Andrej a long time, longer than my mother has," Sergej realised thoughtfully.

"Yes."

"Are you his long-term partner?"

John didn't answer right away, so Sergej asked, this time direct and without hesitation: "Do you love him?"

John closed his eyes for a moment. "Both," he said.

"When did my father return to you?"

"Two years after he married Irina." John's voice was low with the weight of the memories. And the new pain that scraped his heart raw. The betrayal. "But we hadn't found our way to each other yet. We were just friends. And I was engaged to a woman when he returned to me in Great Britain. I married her. He was my best man."

"Oh..."

The answer clearly appeased Sergej. And John became aware deep inside his soul just how long and painful his path to Sherlock had been.

"My wife died eight months after our wedding," John continued. "She was in the late stages of pregnancy."

"And the baby?"

"The car that hit her killed both of them."

Sergej swallowed. "I'm sorry," he whispered. And after several heartbeats: "You must hate the driver."

John said simply, "It was a long time ago." He didn't say what he hadn't known until the last twenty-four hours. That the driver had been under orders from one of the secret services and disappeared after completing his assignment, the investigation blocked from the top, the press misled, Sherlock called back.

"I've been married for a year now, you see," Sergej said gently, "and my wife is also pregnant."

Their eyes met. Sergej's dark blue eyes were damp. John gripped his coffee cup tight, stared into it. He fought back tears. Damn it! All of this here was … more than he could bear. He was sitting with Sherlock's adopted son in the cold cafeteria of the hospital in Yakutsk, and they were sharing such painful things with each other. Things he'd never been able to tell anyone in their proper context before. Damn it! Sergej placed a hand on his arm.

"Thank you, John," he said. "What you've told me about my father is important to me. I understand him better now. He is a difficult person, isn't he? I often thought he must be lonely. But now I know that you are there for him. And have been for a long time. Thank you for that."

John nodded silently. He didn't know what he might have said. The remark about Sherlock's loneliness hit him hard, hurt surprisingly much. A cold steel blade sinking into his heart. Was Sherlock lonely? The secrets he carried around with him, that he wasn't even able to entrust to John, his partner of many years. Sergej was right. Sherlock must be lonely. Very lonely. They finished their coffee.

Then Sergej said, "I'm going to my mother. Will you come with me? You are a doctor after all."

"Sergej. I'd be grateful if you didn't tell your father about our conversation."

"I can't discuss things like that with him, and I'm not about to start now," Sergej countered and stood up.

 

***

 

The taxi driver's name was Nikita Makarovich Kusnezov, but he proposed that John simply call him 'Nikita'. In return, he called John 'John'. Nikita's English was fairly good, albeit with such a strong accent that John had difficulty understanding him sometimes. He'd studied mining but was working as a taxi driver because he could earn more than way than in his native trade. He knew a lot about Yakutsk, his hometown, and offered to show John the city. John agreed. He was less interested in the city, however, than in the information he could glean from talking to Nikita. Nikita knew an astonishing amount and was up-to-date on all the latest gossip. He also taught John a few words of Russian.

"What's the word for 'airport' in Russian?" John asked.

"Aeroport."

"Then any Russian would understand what I mean if I say 'airport' in English?"

"Of course. It is the same word."

That more than anything else gave John pause. Why had none of the taxi drivers in front of the hospital understood him when he'd wanted a ride to the airport? And yet they'd brought him to this out-of-the-way suburb to see Sherlock at the drop of a hat.

Something wasn't right here.


	9. On the Threshhold

The Lena lay spread across the plain, a tangle of waterways, free, unspoilt, a gigantic, untameable system. It was frozen over. A white sheet of ice, covered with a layer of dry, windswept snow. Cargo ships stood in the port basin, frozen in. Nikita drove across the Lena bridge into the nothingness. Land. Ice. Cold. In summer, Nikita said, the Lena was a lifeline, beautiful. John should come in summer, not winter. John stared out at the lifeless, icy irreality.

There was a petrol station at the port that was cheaper than anything else around, Nikita said, and pulled over. John got out. The air jangled with cold, clawing sharply into his hair. Hard, dry snowflakes whipped into his face. John promptly pulled the hood up over his head and turned his back to the wind, which pressed his hood against the back of his head, forming a shell against whose outward face the snowflakes rustled as they flew past. The warmth of his breath created clouds of steam in front of his face. Moisture gathered, clogging up his senses. The world as if through cotton. Everything cut off. Reliant only on himself. No sense of direction. Everything white. The Lena a desert, the port an abandoned, ghostly backdrop.

Nikita had hurried through the cold to the little hut where the attendant was sitting. John leaned sideways against the door of the car and closed his eyes. Sherlock. Constant thoughts of him. Constant. The resonance of the name warmed him somewhere deep inside. Sherlock. So far away. In the same city yet so incredibly far away. The pain heavy and grey, like lead. He should go to him. He was his partner. So many years. So many happy hours. He needed to go to him. There was no other solution. Everything in him demanded it. His soul knew no other reality. He needed to talk to him again. He didn't just love Sherlock; he also loved Andrej. Andrej, that restless, difficult, lonely man Sergej had described. A man who led a double life. Who was burdened by the past, by difficult secrets. A man he hadn't known before and who had still conquered his heart, deeply and painfully, who belonged to Sherlock, unavoidably. 

Andrej. He wanted to meet him. Even if it ended in a fight, every confrontation and argument was better than looking for the man who was both Andrej and Sherlock out here in the wilderness. He needed to find him again. In every way. Anything else was unbearable.

The grab from behind came out of the blue. Cloth pressed over John's mouth and nose. The pungent smell of chlorine jabbed into his brain. He tried desperately to free himself from the stranglehold, but it was strong and unyielding and it was too late.

 

***

 

John was seized by such intense nausea that he twisted to one side in panic and vomited. Coughed. His eyes were running. The mucous membranes in his mouth and nose burned and hurt like hell. Saliva ran out of his mouth and nose and tears poured out of his eyes. The smell of chlorine in his membranes, biting. Most likely chloroform, homemade in someone's kitchen, amateur job. John miserably let everything flow out of him that his body produced to rinse out the chlorine. Spit, snot, and tears. When it got a little better, he searched his trousers for a tissue, wiped his face with shaking hands, and tried to sit up.

It was pitch dark. John felt around. He was lying on a wooden palette lined with cardboard. The floor beneath the palette was concrete. John's shirt was gone, he was only wearing his undershirt and jacket. It was warm and stank to high heaven, like rot, smoke, and fire. Refuse? 

John tried to stand up but he was so weak he couldn't manage it. He decided to remain prone for the time being and cautiously stretched out on the palette, listening to the darkness. There was a continual sound. A scraping, hissing and spitting. Was he in a waste incineration plant?

It was still completely dark the next time John woke up. He had no idea whether it was day or night. They'd taken his mobile, watch and wallet. He had no sense of time or space. He decided to explore the room. The wooden palette lay in one corner. Two walls at right angles. John felt along one of them, counting his steps, paying special attention to the floor. He didn't know whether there might be depressions or obstacles. But it was just a bare concrete floor. Concrete walls. He ran into a steel door somewhere. Hermetically sealed. He felt his way onward. Another concrete wall. Corner. Concrete wall. Eventually his palette again. The room was surprisingly big. Fifteen by twenty metres. At least. A large space. John hadn't run into any obstacles, but that didn't mean anything. There might also be a pit in the middle of the room. Maybe a machine. John felt his way through the room, concentrating, always aware of where his palette and the door were. He didn't find anything. Just the floor. Concrete.

John slept when he was tired and then continued, feeling his way over every centimetre of the floor and walls, feeling around the steel door for the umpteenth time, looking for some means of escape. And for moisture. He was thirsty. But everything was dry and warm and stank.

Did anyone know where he was? Was anyone missing him? Did Sherlock know he hadn't flown to London? Would Mycroft notice that he hadn't checked in again? Where was Sergej? Had Nikita seen what happened to him? Or had Nikita lured him into a trap? Why? Why was he here? Who wanted something from him? And what? John knew it wasn't about him, but Sherlock; Andrej. Maybe Irene. Or possibly Sergej. But not John Watson. No one here was interested in him, other than as a way to put pressure on Andrej – or Sherlock. But then he was only interesting alive. Or was he wrong? Was there something else at play here, something he didn't see?

John felt the dehydration progressing. It was becoming difficult to think clearly. He was tired and had a terrible headache. His mouth was dry and sticky. It still tasted of chlorine. He didn't know how much time had passed. But if they didn't want him to die of thirst, he needed something to drink pretty soon. And badly.

The next time John woke up, the steel door was being torn open and a blinding spotlight shone right into his eyes, so that he flung his arm up to protect them. Men's voices. Then something flew into the room, tumbled, stumbled, fell. A human body. A fraction of a second later, the heavy door slammed shut again and was locked from the outside with a clatter. 

Then it was silent. John listened to the impenetrable darkness, heard irregular breathing, panting, a soft sob. John sat motionless on his palette, didn't dare to move, hardly dared to breathe. Cloth rasping over concrete. John held his breath. Listened. Breathing, wheezing. 

John said into the darkness, "Who's there?" The words echoed all around him.

A sound of shock from a man's throat. John's heart was racing. All of his antennas were pointed into the darkness in front of him. After a couple of seconds of shock, the man said something in Russian. The words were repelled and smeared by the echo of the space.

"I'm sorry, I don't understand Russian," John said.

The person let out his breath with a low, surprised moan. Then the man started to laugh, or maybe to sob. Or both. Both at the same time. John could hardly believe his ears. He knew that laughing and crying together, a sign of total emotional overload and helplessness. Sherlock! Feeling like he was dreaming yet with all systems on high alert, John realised at the same moment that there could be no connection between Sherlock and Andrej. Not here. He didn't know whether the walls had ears that were just waiting for them to make a mistake. 

So with quick presence of mind – albeit bewildered and incredulous – he whispered, "Andrej?"

"John."

"I'm here. In the corner in front of you to the right. Feel your way to the wall on the right. Then go along the wall. The floor's okay."

John listened. It was still. No movement. Just breathing. A soft moan.

"Andrej? Are you injured?"

"Yes. I'm afraid so."

"I'll come to you. Stay where you are."

John set out, feeling his way along the wall then into the room. He was unsteady on his legs and woozy, an aftereffect of his advanced dehydration. He crouched down when he heard breathing directly in front of him. His hand touched a body, and he sank to his knees, sank into Sherlock's arms, which wrapped themselves around him in desperation. A wet face on his neck. Sherlock was sobbing. John held his partner's haggard figure in his arms, shaken by what was happening. He ran a hand through Sherlock's hair; it was wet and sticky. Blood. There was blood on his back too, his arms, his clothes shredded.

"I thought you were dead," Sherlock said, just a puff of air at John's ear.

A shudder ran through Sherlock's body. A sign he'd lost blood. Most likely a lot of blood.

"What did they do to you?" John whispered, shocked.

"They wanted information. But I don't have it. They threatened to kill you and brought me your phone, your watch and your bloody shirt."

John held Sherlock close, gentle and soothing. "I'm alive," he whispered.

"Irina's dead," Sherlock said. "And they have Sergej."

"Who does?"

"I don't know."

Sherlock's body was seized by another bout of tremors. It took a long time until they reached the palette in the corner. It was difficult for John to maintain his orientation, his thoughts were murky, his throat no longer able to form the words he wanted to say. Sherlock was greatly weakened by his numerous injuries, unable to put any weight on the one leg. Using his last reserves of strength, John dragged him over the dusty floor and heaved him up onto the palette.

John tried to feel for Sherlock's injuries in the dark. He tore his undershirt into strips and bound up a deep cut on his upper arm, another one on his leg. One of his shins was broken. John tried to separate a board from the palette. It cracked and splintered when he tugged on it, but the piece of wood sufficed to provide a makeshift splint for Sherlock's broken bone. 

Sherlock was covered in wounds that were already sticky, had stopped bleeding. He was shivering despite the heat. John had laid his jacket over him. They lay beside each other on the palette and held each other close. They were both too weak to do anything. Tending to the wounds had taken what was left of John's strength.

"At least we're together," Sherlock said in a low voice, stroking John's face. "I was so afraid we would lose each other."

They were weak but they agreed they wouldn't leave any chance untried, as long as they had one. There was no question for them that John would drink what Sherlock excreted, even if there was only one opportunity, as Sherlock was getting progressively weaker. The fluid helped John to postpone his own death by a couple of hours, to be there for Sherlock a couple more hours. Hours that ran through John's fingers like fine grains of sand. Hours spent together, at any rate. Time, filled with stillness and the profound knowledge that they belonged together. Forever. Including on this, their final journey. Because John knew they were both going to die, dry out in the heat and bleed to death, if help didn't come very soon.

"Forgive me, John. Please. Forgive me."

It was barely a whisper. Sherlock's hands had twisted around his friend's a while ago. They lay close together, their faces mere millimetres apart, breathing together. This is how they would die. John didn't feel any more pain, was comfortable where he lay, his final position. Sherlock wasn't moving anymore either. Resignation had set in between them. But there was a sense of peace too, along with the knowledge that it was good like this. 

John gathered up all of his strength and brushed Sherlock's dried-out lips with his mouth one last time. He could no longer speak. His gums were dried up and his brain refused to work. It was all fine. They were together.

"John, tear open my jugular with a splinter and drink my blood."

Sherlock spoke with the last of his strength, his life spark rearing its head fiercely. His breath quivered, his body trembled.

_No_. John could only think it. And the thought that he didn't need to fight anymore, that everything was good the way it was, flooded through him with a serenity that he laid around Sherlock like a warm blanket, to lull them both. _We will go together, and I will never let you go, because you hold me too, Sherlock. Andrjuscha._ Something like a smile spread inside John, allowing him to drift off again into the black nothingness, unresisting.


	10. The Proposal

It was quiet. Utterly quiet. Quiet and light. Only a low hum. Somewhere in the expanse of silence, a deep, calming hum. And something else. Something different. A regular beeping. _Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep._ John inhaled. He was breathing. Understood that he was breathing. The air was warm and smelled familiar. Disinfectant. 

John opened his eyes in confusion. It was light. And quiet. Only the humming and beeping. _Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep._ He lay on his back. White sheet. IV stand. Pulse oximeter. He was in hospital. The memory arrived with his next breath: Sherlock.

John was overwhelmed by the surge of panic. He gasped for air. Stared at the whitewashed ceiling with wide-open eyes. Sherlock. Where was Sherlock? Was he alive? A hot, black wave rose up in John's body, burning his throat, triggering a moan, flooding his eyes with tears. They ran out of him, copious, fast, ran down his temples on the left and right only to be swallowed by the pillow. He was powerless, felt the weakness like lead in his body. He couldn't move.

"John?"

Someone placed their hand on John's and squeezed gently. John tried to turn his head. Sergej. The young man sat on a chair beside the bed, pale and bleary-eyed. He looked terrible. Sunken. A recently stitched up wound on his forehead.

"Sherlock?" John asked. It took a second attempt for his voice to work sufficiently as to be audible. "Sherlock?"

Sergej's blue eyes widened. John knew right away that he'd made a mistake. Andrej, not Sherlock, damn it! He closed his eyes. Almost at the same time, he realised that Sergej was sitting at his bedside, not at his father's. That meant... John felt the tears well up in his eyes, unstoppable. Streams of water. As if his body wanted to wash away everything: the memories, the fear, that terrible fear, the incomprehensible, the unendurable... Sherlock. This awful weakness and powerlessness that made it impossible for him to move.

"He's alive," Sergej said quietly, squeezing John's hand soothingly. "He's in intensive care."

The current of warmth that the news released made John dizzy. He swallowed hard, opened his eyes, looked into the blue of the man sitting next to him, still holding his hand.

"It looks like he's going to make it," Sergej said.

John closed his eyes again and relaxed. He was dead tired. Shaky and incredibly frail. Sherlock was alive. He could still feel Sergej squeezing his hand, heard the regular beeping fading away and fell into a deep sleep.

 

***

 

They were in a private clinic. The best. Sergej watched over John, who insisted on seeing Sherlock immediately. Sergej could visit Andrej any time. He was his son. John didn't count as a relative, just a friend. He wasn't married to Andrej. Only to Sherlock. But there was no Sherlock here. John stuck to the story and Sergej didn't ask, just made sure John could see his partner.

Sherlock looked horrible. Pale and sunken. His hair had been shaved off where his head wound had been stitched up. Oxygen. Stomach tube. Bruises on his face, his arms, his torso. The orange from the Betadine everywhere. Wounds, stitches, scrapes. Most were uncovered. One leg and one hand in casts. Sherlock was sedated and didn't move. He was asleep.

John sat down at his side and picked up his uninjured hand. Silent. He just sat there and held Sherlock's hand. There was nothing to say. John couldn't even think. Sherlock was alive. John was numb. The world was far away. Sherlock was close. Very close. As close as in that final hour. Utterly ensconced in each other. Everything fine. They were together. There was nothing to think about. John was hooked up to an IV himself. His body had poisoned itself, his kidneys weren't out of the woods yet, and his muscles kept cramping up. Blackouts and memory problems. And he was so terribly tired. He sat at Sherlock's bedside, watching their hands, intertwined, and he wasn't sure, couldn't be sure, whether this was a dream or not.

Sergej took him back to his own room.

"Why are you taking care of me?" John asked. "Why not your father?"

"The best thing I can do for my father is to take care of you," Sergej answered earnestly. "I also think you need me more than my father does right now."

"Didn't you want to get back to Moscow?"

"Yes. I will as soon as this here is finished."

"What happened, Sergej?"

Sergej took a few steps, paced back and forth in front of the window. John had sat down on his bed and waited.

"My mother," Sergej began, "offered some materials from the ISS to North Korea. Delicate stuff, military. But she was stabbed before she could turn them over. They've disappeared. The Koreans must have thought Andrej knew something, and tortured him for it. They threatened to kill you. Then they took me and wanted the information from me. I have access to the ISS project, as you already know."

"So what did you do?"

"I gave them what they wanted."

"You did WHAT?"

Sergej turned and looked at John. "What should I have done? They killed my mother, injected Pentobarbital into her IV in the hospital. And they would have let you and my father die. I also have a pregnant wife at home. What would YOU have done in my place?"

"Where did your mother get those materials in the first place?" John asked. "From you?"

Sergej didn't answer for a long time. Then he lowered himself reflectively into the chair next to John's bed.

"I've thought about it for a long time," he finally said, his voice low. "I didn't give her anything. Not knowingly. But she came to me in Korolyov a couple of weeks ago. She was there on official business with one of the project leaders, got herself taken around and shown everything. She said I was her son and that she was very proud of me. As a result, I was treated with deference and instructed to fulfill her requests. She wanted to see the ISS images that show American missile sites. She asked me for some water and I left her alone for a moment to fulfill her request. She could theoretically have downloaded the data to a device."

John exhaled forcibly. "What does Andrej have to do with all this?" he asked.

"I don't know. I assume he came because my mother was stabbed. As did I."

"Or your mother was stabbed to lure you and Andrej here."

"I don't know, John." Sergej's voice sounded pained. 

John looked into his blue eyes and said, "Either way. You saved my life and Andrej's. Thank you, Sergej."

Sergej shook his head. "I thought so too," he said, "but you were already at the hospital when I received the tip about the incinerator from the Koreans. Someone had already alarmed the fire brigade and ambulance."

"Whoever stabbed Irina most likely took the materials with them that she had on her. So there's at least one other party involved," John said bitterly.

He was helpless in the face of the facts. Who had saved them? Who was interested in his and Sherlock's survival? Mycroft? But who had attacked Irina? Had she had the information on her, and if so: who had it now? Sherlock would have seen the solution. But Sherlock was under sedation in the ICU. Were they even safe in this hospital? Was Sergej safe? What about Sherlock? 

"Is it possible to make an international call on your mobile?" John asked.

"Of course. I work on an international project." Sergej held his smart phone out to John.

"Could you leave me alone with that for a bit?"

"Naturally. I will go to Andrej and retrieve my phone from you in half an hour."

"Thanks."

It took John a few minutes to find the official number of the Diogenes Club. His call went through to the reception desk, and John made use of all the authority at his command to ensure that Mycroft was informed that John wanted to speak to him. 

Mycroft himself didn't hesitate a second in accepting the call. 

"John! What a surprise. What can I do for you?"

"Sherlock's been injured. He's in the ICU at the Yaroslav Botkin private clinic in Yakutsk."

"The best place to be. What seems to be the problem?"

"Are you involved in everything that's happened here?"

"John. You can't seriously believe I'm going to answer that question."

"I don't know what to do at this point. Are we safe here?"

"Concentrate on getting well, John. I must say, I don't particularly appreciate you calling me over the mobile network on a strange device. The antennas are notoriously easy to locate. Good night, John. – Oh yes, and do say hello to Andrej from me as soon as he wakes up."

Click. Mycroft had hung up. John promptly deleted the call and the number from the phone's memory. He was satisfied. Mycroft had reacted calmly, and they were safe here, to all appearances. Mycroft obviously knew the clinic, knew what had happened, knew Andrej, was probably better informed about his condition than John was. Mycroft had a hand in the game. John was certain of that. And for some reason, that was comforting. His brother-in-law. King of the intelligence agencies. John smiled.

 

***

 

"I want you to tell me everything. Sometime," John said.

He said it soft and gentle. They were holding hands, had been the entire time. Gazing into each other's eyes. Ever since Sherlock had woken up, John sat with him virtually around the clock, holding his hand. Most of the time without speaking. There were still hardly any words. Still this closeness. John was afraid words would destroy it.

"We'll withdraw from the public eye and keep bees," Sherlock promised quietly.

"We're in Yakutsk and you're Andrej Sorokin."

"I know."

John swallowed. It was better to say nothing. All those things in the background. Irene. Sergej. The Koreans. The data. The injuries. Sherlock squeezed his hand.

"I made a mistake," Sherlock said slowly. "A fatal error. Perhaps the greatest one of my life." He took a deep breath. It seemed to be difficult for him to make this admission. His water-blue eyes sought John's. "I should have told you everything. A long time ago. I put our relationship on the line."

"Yes."

John closed his eyes. The burden of the past. Heavy and harrowing. Deception. Betrayal. Hurt. All those hours spent together in the dark prison. Awaiting death. So simple. So deep and true and simple. As simple as what they were doing now. Holding on to each other, being close.

"I'll make you an offer," John began, softly, without opening his eyes. "We'll finish whatever needs to be finished here. But when we return to our house in Sussex, we draw a line behind the past. We leave everything behind us and start over. No secrets. A new chapter. We'll inaugurate it and celebrate it with friends. And I want us to wear our rings. For the rest of our lives."

Silence fell between them. Sherlock didn't speak. Their hands interlaced. John took a deep breath. This was what he wanted. He wanted to be with Sherlock. He wanted to spend the last years they would have together in peace and trust. Without the constant threat of danger. With gardening and bees and a couple of patients who brought potatoes and apples. With friendly neighbours and friends. With Sherlock. With Sherlock completely. No disturbances. Every minute. He wanted to consciously live every single minute with Sherlock.

"Is that an option for you?" John asked.

He opened his eyes. Sherlock's gaze rested on him. Blue and deep with emotion. The pale eyes filled with moisture when their eyes met and held fast. Held fast with unflinching strength. No trace of insecurity. A peace existed between them. A profound peace. 

Sherlock nodded and closed his eyes for a moment. Tears escaped from their corners, ran down his temples into the pillow. Then they looked at each other again, their hands entwined, and didn't say anything. All these things, all of the truly important things, didn't need any words.


	11. The Bunglers

Irina's funeral was short. Her ashes were interred in a community grave. Sergej had arranged it. He hadn't told anyone, on Andrej's request; neither friends nor neighbours in Moscow, where Irina had had her official residence. There had been an argument between father and son over it. John had been able to convince Sergej that it was the best solution, though, given the murky and still dangerous situation. 

On the other hand, neither John nor Sherlock was able to stop Sergej from turning himself in. He told his boss that he was at fault for ISS data reaching the North Koreans, and had been recalled to Korolyov immediately. He was given leave from investigatory custody in order to attend the funeral, and flew to Yakutsk in the company of two guards. John and Andrej were also under constant surveillance. Mycroft had made sure of it.

The upshot was that only a small handful of people stood at Irina's grave. Sergej, Andrej, John and two of the guards. Andrej was pale and quiet, his expression hard as the priest blessed Irina's final resting place. He'd been released from hospital two days earlier, was still weak and tired. His leg was still in a splint. John and Sergej held him up. It was bitter cold, the sky leaden. 

Afterwards, they went back to the hotel where John and Andrej had taken a room on Mycroft's behest. They ate some of the sandwiches they'd brought up to the room, toasted Irina with vodka and drank tea.

One of Sergej's guards had come into the room with them and stood by the door. There was no opportunity to talk in private. And so the brief meeting passed in silence, aside from some small talk. Before Sergej got ready to leave for Korolyov again, he scribbled something on the edge of a crumpled paper serviette with a spoon and slid it over to Andrej along with a teacup, asking him to refill it. John watched the scene attentively. Andrej glanced quickly at the edge of the serviette then tore it off and put it into his trouser pocket. Then he looked at Sergej and signalled 'yes' with his eyes. The blood drained from Sergej's face. He swallowed, but didn't say anything. John had no idea what had happened, but he did his best not to make a sound, given the obvious tension of the situation.

Sergej left a short while later. He hugged his father for a long time while the two whispered in each other's ears. He also hugged John, firmly and unabashedly, and said, his blue eyes open wide and filled with emotion: "Thank you for everything, John." Then he left, leaving John and Andrej behind. 

Andrej took a painkiller and lay down on the bed, exhausted. John lowered himself into a chair and closed his eyes. They were trapped in a hotel room in Yakutsk, shielded from anything that was happening, cut off from any source of information. The local daily newspaper was the only thing that was delivered, and there were only four Russian stations available on the television. John understood virtually nothing. Sherlock read the paper and told him what it said. There was nothing there they might have drawn any sort of conclusion from. They had a mobile phone they could use to make calls, send texts, and contact Mycroft. They received a new SIM card with another number at irregular intervals. A man from the Russian secret service stood outside the door of their room day and night.

One more night. The man outside the door had handed them airplane tickets to London and let them know by text that a taxi had been arranged. They were completely at the mercy of others. John was angry about that, even if he understood that the protection was necessary. Sherlock was still too weak to act. But Sherlock was just one of the things he was worried about. The other one was Sergej. John was determined to use any means at his disposal to ensure that the young man wasn't punished for what he'd done.

"John?"

John opened his eyes and stood up sluggishly. He went over to the bed and sat down next to Sherlock. He looked tired. And with his hair so short now, it was even more clear how thin he was. His head wound had healed well, and his hair would grow back. A lot of it would be grey, that was already clear. Sherlock was no longer able to take as much as he used to. They'd both gotten old. 

John rested a hand on Sherlock's arm. "Do you need anything?"

"What should I do with these?"

Sherlock lifted his hand and uncurled it. Two gold rings rested in it. One from Irene, which the undertaker had given him, and his own. John looked at the two rings, disconcerted; they bore testimony to a connection which Sherlock had hidden from him all those years.

"I don't have anything to do with that," he said. It sounded more dismissive than he'd intended. They'd taken the ring off Sherlock's injured hand in the hospital. Up to that point, he'd worn it constantly.

"I'd like for you to decide what happens with them," Sherlock said.

"Put them in a box and store them somewhere."

Sherlock shook his head slowly, looking into John's eyes.

"They don't have any meaning anymore," he said. "Not even as mementos."

John stared down at the gold. The rings set off an aversion in him, he couldn't control it.

"I'm not going to take that responsibility off you, Sherlock. You'll either think of something we can both be reconciled with, or you won't. But that's YOUR job."

It sounded frosty. John was annoyed and hurt. Still hurt. He wanted to stand up, but Sherlock held him back by the wrist.

"Stay here, John. Don't run away. We're flying to London tomorrow and I don't want to carry this past with us into the new chapter in our life."

John searched the water-blue eyes, the pleading reflected in them. Sherlock's hand felt for his and held it fast. A firm, warm, familiar hand. John sat down on the edge of the bed again, tried to relax. Sherlock was right. It was better to take care of this now and not take it with them to their cottage. But there was still bitterness inside him. He couldn't just wipe away the whole affair.

"You're a widower now. Will you marry me?" he asked.

It sounded provocative, and Sherlock drew his brows together in surprise.

"You see, I'd like to marry all of you. If Andrej's part of that, then I want to marry him too. Or do you have any other identities I don't know about?"

The growling in the background couldn't be overheard. They held each other's gaze silently. Sadness flickered in Sherlock's eyes. John closed his for a few seconds, trying not to let the new wave of disappoinment rising in him gain the upper hand. But he was sure he was going to require Sherlock to wear their wedding band in Sussex. He knew that spite was part of the reason for the demand. But for God's sake, he had the right to ask his husband to own up to him. Visibly. Ever since he'd seen him wearing the ring with Irene, he was no longer willing to accept any excuses.

Sherlock's fingers moved in John's hand, squeezing gently, fingertips caressing the back of his hand.

"Andrej is just a phantom, John," he said, conciliatory. "He'll fly back to London tomorrow and die there. The identity will be erased. Andrej won't exist very much longer. There are no more identities, and there never will be."

"What about Sergej? You're taking his father away from him."

"He knows who I am."

Sherlock let go of John's hand, dug in his trouser pocket and held the crumpled bit of paper serviette out to John. The writing pressed into the soft paper was just barely legible: _Sherlock Holmes_.

"You lied to him the same as you did to me," John said bitterly. "And him a child who needed a father."

Sherlock didn't say anything. He took a deep breath and lay back against the pillows. He stared up at the ceiling. Muscles twitched in his face. He bit down on both his lips and blinked when water gathered in the corners of his eyes. John ran his hand through Sherlock's short, stubbly hair. It both touched him and gave him a certain sense of satisfaction to see that Sherlock was hit by the reproach, maybe also by the harsh tone; that he was crying. John was still furious at him, and to some extent unforgiving. He was hurting Sherlock. Not intentionally, but he'd hit the mark. It was revenge, and it wasn't okay. Not this way. John knew that, and he felt sorry, even if he hadn't been able to control it. There needed to be other ways, and they'd need to work on those. Sherlock was weakened by his injuries and the medication. Physically and psychologically. This was a bad time for things like this.

"Sergej will forgive you," John said, reflective, "and so will I. But I'm going to need some time, Sherlock."

Sherlock nodded without looking at him. John caressed Sherlock's damp cheek and took his slender hand in his, felt the grateful pressure. John realised at that moment that everything that was happening here was more than Sherlock could bear. He'd played a game with people of emotion, never guessing that he was one of them.

"We won't let Sergej down," John said, trying to be more positive. "His father will die, officially, but he'll get Sherlock in exchange. If not as a father then as a friend. And me into the bargain."

Since Sherlock didn't respond to that, John added, "I'll soften Mycroft up for it. After all, Sergej is sort of my son too, isn't he?"

 

***

 

John swore. They'd just landed at Heathrow after a seventeen-hour flight via Moscow's Domodedovo airport, and they were already at someone else's disposal. They sat in Mycroft's limousine, the driver bringing them to Mycroft's office. It was late morning in London, the day had just begun. They had a long flight behind them, however, and were dead tired.

Mycroft was waiting for them. Although he was close to seventy, he still had his own office in the government district and kept his hand in to a large degree. He was as cool as ever, indicated where they should sit, and had coffee, water, and fresh pastries brought in.

"Now," he said, placing his fingertips together, "I'm glad to have the two of you safely back in London. It wasn't easy and cost a large amount of public funds. You're the cause of more outlay than you bring in. That wasn't exactly a favourable outcome, Sherlock. You weren't even able to find out who killed Irene. You're getting old."

Sherlock sat there, pale and bleary in the expensive leather armchair. Mycroft's words didn't seem to annoy him or even provoke him particularly. Instead, he said calmly, "I'm too old for this job. That was my last assignment. I won't be accepting any more."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows in displeasure. "Sherlock. Your country needs you."

Sherlock smiled. "YOU need me," he corrected him. "My country has had new men for a long time now."

There was no reproach in his tone. Mycroft stared at him. They were all three old men. They were also all three smart enough to know that everything had to end sometime. But all of that lurked unspoken in the background.

Mycroft said, "YOU brought it to my attention that Irene might be the one offering up the ISS data. I had her put under surveillance for your sake. And YOU'RE the one who took off for Yakutsk as soon as it became clear it was her."

"You thought I was the best man for the job."

"You were her husband. Was there any better way to get to her?"

"Apparently there was a faster one," Sherlock said. "Someone stabbed her before I got there."

"That was the Russian secret service. They got the data off her before you could. Irene was armed and injured one of the men with a stiletto. He defended himself and injured her in return."

"She's dead," said Sherlock.

"Your dear son delivered the goods in her stead, thus making her superfluous, at least in the eyes of the Russian mafia, with whom the Koreans were cooperating."

"Sergej wanted to save us," Sherlock hissed.

"Save? How naïve! The mafia doesn't spare a penny for human life. WE got you out of there. Your clever doctor, who let himself be shanghaied by a taxi driver. And your son, who got in the way and caused nothing but more trouble. The trouble the CIA went to securing the data again being the least of it!"

"If you hadn't let Irene get hurt, Sergej wouldn't have gone back to Yakutsk and everything would have taken its course quietly and with a minimum of fuss," Sherlock hissed.

"If you'd come clean to your partner, he wouldn't have run after you like a chicken with its head cut off and shaken everything up."

"YOU gave him the address!"

"He threatened me with physical harm!"

"You're getting old, Mycroft. You can't even manage to stop John, never mind the Russian secret service. You should retire."

"You'd be dead without me," Mycroft stated.

"We'd be sitting happily in front of a fire in Sussex if you hadn't made so many mistakes."

"What's going to happen with Sergej?" John broke in to ask, in an attempt to put an end to the mutual accusations of the two brothers.

Mycroft twisted his mouth disparagingly. "We shall attempt to portray him as a victim and hero. He did manage to point up a leak in the ISS project, even if it was more the result of stupidity than intent."

"Can we go home now?" Sherlock asked abruptly. "I'm tired."

It was quiet in the office for several seconds. The unexpected end to the conversation appeared to irritate Mycroft. He stared at his brother, scowling. Then a faint smile stole into his expression and he said, managing to sound both patronising and benevolent at the same time: "Of course. I don't want to keep you any longer. I'm glad you both made it back alive."

It came across as both friendly and cold, a combination that only Mycroft commanded so perfectly.


	12. Home

They sat silently on the back seat of Mycroft's limousine. The driver was fighting his way through the midday London traffic. It wasn't until they'd left the city on the A20 going south and were driving through the countryside that John relaxed a little. He'd had an internal struggle over the fact that they weren't being taken to Baker Street. It was so strange. A journey out into the country, into an unfamiliar life. Not to Baker Street, back to the familiar chaos. John had a hard time with it. Their flat on Baker Street didn't exist anymore. It had been let out. Other people lived there now.

John stared out the window at the bare winter landscape. Fields. Meadows. It was grey and wet, too warm for snow. Sherlock had propped his leg up, leaning his upper body against John, his head on John's shoulder. John put his arm around him and pressed his face into Sherlock's short hair, pensive. Sherlock smelled different, more intense and familiar in the warm, damp air of the southern winter. Much different than in the dry air of Siberia. Like home. 

Sherlock's hand touched John's face and neck in an affectionate caress. Sherlock twisted himself lazily, seeking John's mouth. The kiss was slow, eyes closed, intimate and tender. John returned it lovingly. The taste of the coffee they'd drunk at Mycroft's. Sherlock's breath, his playful lips, and a powerful current of heat running through John's body into his groin. Sherlock moaned into his mouth, nipped at him, teased him with his tongue. 

John didn't open his eyes, but ended the kiss, nestling his face against Sherlock's temple. It had been so long, so long since they'd made love. He wanted it so badly. His body was warm and ready. John let Sherlock take his hand and gently pull it towards him, press it lightly on the spot where the hardness of his erection could be felt. John let his hand rest there. Sherlock's fingertips stroked across it. They would be home soon.

The cottage was cold, damp, and abandoned. John lit the fire in the hearth first off and made tea. Sherlock put the bags on the table with the groceries they'd bought in London. They drank tea and ate a few biscuits in silence. Then John went upstairs, showered and got into bed. It was only afternoon, but he was dead tired. Tired and reflective. The trip lingered in his bones, the events of the past days and weeks weighing on him heavily. 

He wasn't sure if the decision to move here to Sussex had been right. Alone here with Sherlock. Day after day. He wanted a life with Sherlock, but he had his doubts as to whether things would go so smoothly on a day to day basis, all the way out here. Up to now, they'd always been able to get out of each other's way without much trouble. They'd had their work, the surgery. They'd only needed to leave the house to be in the middle of the city. Here there was nothing but countryside outside the door. Nothing else. Well, there were the O'Rourkes and Dr Halsey. There was the village and the people who needed him as a doctor. There was a garden that needed tending, and if Sherlock realised his dream, then there would be beehives behind the house early next year. It was over two hours to London. 

Still: they needed to start all over, from the beginning, he and Sherlock. With this place here, with the new situation, with retirement, the injuries of the past few weeks. And with the new people they'd met here. He needed to ring Tyler O'Rourke and make contact with Leo Halsey. The latter would certainly already have tried to get in touch with him. 

John had folded his hands behind his head, letting the thoughts, doubts, and fears parade through it, observing them. It smelled of wood now, like an open fire, the snug warmth of the hearth spreading to the upper storey. Sherlock was rummaging around in the rooms. When he finally crawled into bed with John, he'd showered as well, taken the splint off his leg and wrapped it up. He was freshly shaved and smelled spicy, like the shower gel he used. He lay close to John so that they were touching, head to head.

"Look," he said softly. 

He lifted his hand. A narrow platinum band between his thumb and index finger. The light reflected off it as he turned and rolled it, looking at it closely.

"It says 'John' inside," he said in a low voice. "That's you."

"I know," John growled affectionately.

"Take it."

John did as his partner bid. It was true, his name was engraved inside. It was Sherlock's ring. John slid it onto the finger Sherlock held out to him. It was loose, the strain of the past few days having taken their toll. Sherlock looked at his be-ringed hand devoutly, from every angle, moved it, closed it, opened it.

"Satisfied?" John asked.

"No. There are two of them."

Sherlock lifted his hand again, another ring between his thumb and index finger. 

"It says 'Sherlock' inside, look."

He held it up in front of John's face. "I know it says 'Sherlock' inside," John grumbled. "I had it in my hands often enough over the past few years, dreaming of wearing it."

Sherlock ran his hand through John's hair and kissed him tenderly.

"Give me your hand," he whispered and slipped the ring onto the finger it belonged on. Then he took John's hand in both of his, looked him in the eye and said, "I'm going to wear the ring I share with you day and night from now on. I promise."

John met his gaze without speaking. His eyes were pale as water, open and deep, alert and honest. John nodded soberly to signal that he'd understood and accepted. Sherlock took a deep breath. John knew it wasn't that easy. Sherlock knew it too. But it was a start, and John was grateful that Sherlock had followed up on the issue with the rings on his own and acted on it right away. They were both wearing their rings now. The first conscious step toward a new chapter in their life.

"Thank you," said John.

Sherlock smiled. "Next topic?" he said.

Before John could ask what that was, Sherlock had grabbed his hand, guided it between his legs and rubbed it over his burgeoning cock. A moment later, they were smiling and hugging. John accepted Sherlock's caresses and accompanying sighs, his inquisitive kisses, his heated, demanding touches. He accepted the arousal that flooded his body, making him warm and mellow, making him accessible to his partner, to Sherlock. They undressed and surrendered to each other. They were both tired and gladly took each other in, let whatever happened to them, happen. No lengthy foreplay. They simply needed each other now, needed the confirmation, the closeness, needed the mutual experience that bound them together. 

John pushed Sherlock over onto his back in order to spare his leg, stroked and stimulated him, ground against him lustfully as he held Sherlock's arms up over his head. Sherlock reacted strongly to being at John's mercy. John knew that and took pleasure in it. Sherlock's slender body arched up beneath his relentless hands and lips, beneath the tight friction of their erections rubbing against each other. John felt the flame inside him flare up under the influence of the body writhing beneath him, the utter devotion, the moaning and pleading. He hesistated for a moment due to the injuries to Sherlock's leg, but then he made him his in every way. He wanted Sherlock. Wanted to have all of him, completely. 

He entered him, careful but decisive, and Sherlock clawed into the pillows with a low, lusty cry, rising up toward him, tempestuous and impatient, pressed himself towards John, pulled him further inside through the movements of his hips. John moved slowly and attentively, completely in sync with Sherlock's countermovements. Sherlock gasped and pleaded until John wet his hand with spit and stroked Sherlock's rock-hard cock with it. Sherlock was about to climax, and John knew that he was so far gone himself that the contractions he would feel while so deep inside Sherlock would suffice.

They swept each other along, the overwhelming joy of their union felt somewhere deep down. It wasn't something that happened every time with them either, and they stayed with their arms around each other for a long time, close and intimate, drunk on the afterglow, whispering endearments to each other until they fell asleep in each other's arms.

 

***

 

The celebration took place three weeks later. Sherlock was in a hurry to make good on what he'd promised John: that they would start a new chapter of their life and celebrate it with their friends. They'd planned and prepared and invited everyone, both old friends and new, neighbours and acquaintances from the village. They'd agreed to open the house to everyone. The only argument they'd had was over Mycroft. Sherlock hadn't wanted to invite him. John had. If only out of gratitude, as Mycroft's people had managed to get Sergej out of his unfortunate situation. He'd lost his job, to be sure, but he'd been offered another one in international space travel. Sergej emailed John that he was happy and sent a picture of himself and his pregnant wife, who was close to giving birth. He sent it to John because the two of them were in contact. Sergej's father, Andrej, was officially dead, and Sergej wasn't sure enough of himself to write to Sherlock.

"Maybe you should make an opening move toward Sergej," John had said to Sherlock one quiet evening as they both sat in front of their laptops.

"Give me some time, John," Sherlock had answered without looking up from his computer. "It's not that easy for me either, you know. I need some more distance."

"Does it bother you that I'm in contact with Sergej?"

"No. Quite the opposite."

Sherlock had looked up, looked at John, a smile and gratitude in his pale eyes.

And so they had ended up inviting Mycroft after all. However, they received neither regrets nor an acceptance from him. He simply didn't react to their invitation. Sherlock was annoyed. John took it in stride.

The first guests arrived in the late afternoon that Saturday, a couple of women from the village with their children. They brought hot coals in a metal bucket, which they placed in the fireplace to bring the village fire into the house. They smoked out the house with sage and drew a small infinity symbol on one of the wooden door posts with chalk. Sherlock and John were told it was a local custom.

And then everyone else arrived. The O'Rourkes had gone all out. Elsie O'Rourke had baked her famous cherry-almond cake, brought along a beef roast and made apple cider custard. Dr Leo Halsey had decided to accept the invitation and brought his whole family along. His wife brought local mushroom and fish pasties. And of course there was tea, cider, and beer in abundance. Along with an excellent single malt whiskey, which – surprisingly – Mycroft had arranged for. He didn't come in person, but he'd had it delivered. Molly was there, along with Lestrade and Stamford and all of the patients from the village John had taken care of and so generously invited. They all came, with their kith and kin. Everyone brought something to eat: cheese, clotted cream, stewed berries, brick oven bread, venison sausage and homemade schnaps. Everything was tapped, cut open, and promptly devoured. It tasted excellent. The cold buffet in the kitchen became more and more opulent, and it became clear fairly soon that Sussex had never known lean times, and had a grand culinary tradition.

Guests came and went, brought, took, and did. John and Sherlock lost track – and control – fairly quickly. The village had pretty much taken over the party. The cottage was heaving with eating, drinking, chatting, and laughing people. Children and dogs played between the tables and benches the neighbours had brought and set up all over. Some of the women had taken over the kitchen, cooking mutton stew. 

John and Sherlock sat squeezed in between their guests and answered the curious questions of the neighbour women. Of course they asked about the rings. _Married? Really married?_ Some of them didn't even know that was possible, a marriage between two men, all official and everything. Lots of curiosity. Lots of good wishes. Lots of laughter. No one was bothered by the fact that John and Sherlock were a couple. But out here in the country, it wasn't exactly something that happened every day, and it was thus a topic of interest. The women especially wanted to know who took care of the household, who cooked, who washed up. It became clear rather quickly that a Mrs Hudson was missing, and more than one woman offered to help out around the house – if they needed it.

Quite a lot of alcohol was consumed, and after most of the women with children had gone home, the rest of the guests sat around the fire for a long time, drinking whiskey, telling stories about the village and the heroes and witches that had lived there. It was morning when John and Sherlock collapsed into bed, half dead. The cottage was a ruin and smelled of people, onions and sage. John and Sherlock had never been to a party like that before. It left in its wake a sense of having been accepted and welcomed, of belonging. An experience that overwhelmed both of them and made them happy in a new, heretofore unknown way.


	13. Late Yield

John had himself let out on the main road, shouldered his bag and walked the rest of the way. He took a deep breath of the warm fragrances of the August night. The familiar aromas of dung, soil, leaves and blossoms. The scent of roses wafting from one of the gardens. The unexpectedly deep-seated feeling of return, of homecoming, overwhelmed him. John stopped short in wonder.

It was dark in the village. The street lamps went off at midnight. The sky was littered with stars. The plump moon illuminated the street and the cat scurrying across it. A horse snorted restlessly in the Griffins' stable. John walked along the road that led to the cottage, deep in thought, past the O'Rourkes, whose dog, Alfie, ran out of their yard towards him, wagging its tail and greeting him with a restrained 'wuff'. John petted his head, patted his flank. Alfie walked a few steps with him, then trotted back.

John's heart started pounding when he saw the cottage. A light was on downstairs. Sherlock was still up. The heavy scent of the broad-leaved lime tree by the door. It was in bloom. John hesitated, listening. Sherlock was playing the violin. Bach. Sonata Nr. 1 in G minor. Sherlock often liked to play the Adagio, which he knew by heart. A fugue. Mathematical precision. Sherlock played it with unusually lucid incisiveness. Exact, as if he were slicing the world into two halves, one of them emotional, which he discarded, the other mental, which he then entered. As if he were striding through the palaces of perfect analysis, eyes straight ahead, an unimpeachable order, painless transparence. 

_'I need to be able to retreat into mental structures. The emotional fields drain too much from my reserves,'_ Sherlock had said to him once. And after John had pointed out that that was the same as running away, he'd replied: _'It's my refuge from grief and loneliness.'_

John had stopped and set down his bag. Homesickness overcame him, making tears shoot into his eyes. How had he been able to leave this man? What had made him think it would be better in London? Why had he ever believed that a separation would heal his heart? His heart belonged to Sherlock. He knew that now, had seen that there was no other way. He would have to get through it. The hurt. The pain. The past. He was ready now. But he was scared. Scared of a confrontation. Sherlock had sent text after text, asking him to come back. John hadn't answered any of them. After a month, Sherlock had given up.

John wiped his eyes, tried to collect himself. There was no way around the next step, no matter what came after. He picked up his bag and went to the door of the house. He had a key but didn't dare to use it. Sherlock was playing a pure, clear run of sixteenth notes, beneath them a sonorous counterpoint, low, constant, unfailing. John listened, hesitant. He didn't have the heart to interrupt the music. It touched something deep inside him, setting off a fresh wave of tears. He waited until the fugue wove itself into raw harmonies again before ringing the bell. 

The playing stopped abruptly. Footsteps. Sherlock opened the door. Violin and bow in his left hand. His expression hard and pale. They stared at each other. Sherlock took a tenative step back to let John in, not saying anything. John set his bag down on the stone floor and closed the door behind him. Sherlock was still standing there with the violin, frozen. John didn't know what he should do. He'd prepared something to say, but it was all gone. His eyes stung. Tears were still running down his face. Sherlock's eyes were dark and wounded. A constant flickering in them. His lips twitched, he bit down on them. His face like stone. They didn't speak. Neither of them spoke.

Sherlock was the first to disengage from the paralysis. He turned away, went to the violin case that lay on the coffee table, loosened the bow and fixed it in the holder intended for it in the lid. He took the cloth out of the case and started to clean his instrument, slowly and with care. His hands were shaking. He was still wearing his ring, as was John.

"Did you come to tell me you're moving out?" Sherlock asked without interrupting what he was doing.

John closed his eyes and swallowed hard. "No," he said. His voice was about to break.

Sherlock paused in cleaning the violin, just for a second, before rubbing the fingerboard clean, polishing the scroll, and placing the instrument in its case. He still wasn't looking at John when he said harshly, "If you come back, I need it to be a definitive decision. Not a trial." A couple of heartbeats later, he added, his voice cracking, "I won't be able to take you leaving a second time."

John simply said, "I'm back."

He dug his fingers into the back of the chair standing beside him. His legs were weak and threatened to refuse to bear his weight as he added fearfully, "If you still want me, after all that."

Sherlock took a deep breath and turned around. "Of course I still want you, John," he said, so quietly that it was nothing more than a hoarse whisper. "My life belongs to you."

John closed his eyes, holding fast to the chair. Tears leapt from his eyes, washing away the 'thank you' he'd wanted to say.

They both stood there, half a room between them. Paralysed, incapable of dealing with the situation. John was shaking. There had been so much he'd wanted to say. So much. To apologise, explain, confess. To promise that he'd never, ever leave again. That he knew where his place was now. How stupid he'd been. An old man, blinded.

"Welcome home," Sherlock said softly. His voice quavered.

He started to move, walked across the room to John, slow and cautious. He stopped in front of him, John still clinging to the chair, trembling and awash with tears. Sherlock reached out one hand and placed it on John's trembling shoulder.

"John."

A moment later, they were hugging, gasping and sobbing. Burrowing into each other.

"I didn't even last two months without you," John cried.

"They were the worst two months of my life," Sherlock whispered. "But you waited two years for me."

 

***

 

The sun shone in John's eyes when he opened them. He'd fallen asleep on the bench behind the house in the late afternoon sun. Sherlock looked down at him and held out one hand.

"Come with me, I want to show you something."

Sherlock's eyes were glowing, but his expression was serious. Still. There was still grief between them. They would need some time to find each other again. 

John took his hand and let Sherlock help him up. His back hurt from the unaccustomed work in the garden. He'd weeded the overgrown flower beds and loosened up the soil, removed the side shoots from the tomato plants, set up the forcing pit, and sowed leeks and winter spinach. The fennel had sprouted and was in bloom. John left it alone. Bees liked it. There was a lot to do. A lot had been left undone in the garden over the past two months. But a lot of things had also thrived. The herb garden that John had planted at the entrance to the vegetable patch was bursting with life. Sage, fennel, borage, several kinds of thyme, rosemary, savory, balm, and mint: everything had grown profusely and was in bloom. Sherlock had watered and cared for it all, even the lupin in front of the house. They weren't a very high-yield forage plant, mostly attracting bumblebees. Sherlock hadn't wanted them near the bees, so John had planted them in a side bed near the front door. Behind the house, in the orchard, plums, pears, and apples were ripening. Ladders leaned up against one tree. They'd started the harvest two days ago and shored up one of the heavily-laden apple trees. They would have plenty of work in the coming weeks.

The beehives stood protected by the wall of the house. Sherlock had built a narrow shelter for them with room for eight boxes. He'd only put four colonies in to start. The four landing boards were the site of frenzied activity. A few individual bees rested on a fifth one. Sherlock had caught a swarming colony. It was still weak. But the late August weather was sunny and warm, and flowers were in bloom all over, even out on the fields and meadows. The colony had good chances of survival.

Sherlock pulled John into the narrow service lane between the beehives and the wall of the house, opened one of the boxes and took off the cover board. The honeycomb was visible through the window into the super. Almost half of the cells were capped. Sherlock opened the glass pane straight away. He wasn't wearing gloves or any other kind of protection. The bees didn't seem to be interested in him, maybe they knew his hand, which reached into the super with a meditative peace and attentiveness. Sherlock gently moved a couple of bees aside, scraped a cell open with his fingernail, and caught the liquid that was extruded on his finger.

"Try."

It was a tiny amount, a single drop. John took Sherlock's hand and licked off the finger he held out to him. The taste was sweet and spicy, and John took the entire finger into his mouth to suck on it.

"Mmm..."

Sherlock smiled reflectively. "We've got a late yield," he said. "This is all your doing, John. They're your flowers and herbs. The wild grapes in front of the house, the roses and your gorse."

Sherlock closed the bee box. His eyes smouldered as they sought John's. John didn't see him like this often, so full of quiet joy.

"The teasel you planted, the thyme and the rosemary, the sage, the mint, your borage, the hollyhock, the coneflower, your sunflowers and lilies, the blackberries, the summer lilac..."

Sherlock wrapped both arms around John in the middle of his sentence, hugging him. He stopped talking, just held his friend in a close, heartfelt embrace.

"The gorse..." John whispered. "I planted it specially for the bees."

"I know." Sherlock's embrace tightened. "I know."

He rocked John back and forth in his arms, like a child being comforted. John closed his eyes. He felt moisture on his neck and slung his arms even tighter around his partner, ran his hand through the bristly, greying hair, gripping it firmly. All the tears of the past few days. So many tears, so much affection, so much attention. Ever since John was back, a new tenderness had sprouted up between them from the fine-grained veil of insecurity, more defined and caring than ever. Their days were spent working together, nurturing what their new life together had become. Everything was a gift: every look, every smile, every touch. They were finding each other anew. Two months that had changed everything. Sherlock had become quiet and withdrawn. He'd set up a laboratory where he experimented with bees and plants. John took care of patients and the garden. Maybe they'd simply become old. Old and thoughtful. Sentimental, perhaps. They stood wound tightly around each other in the bee shed and cried.

"The two of us," Sherlock whispered.

Two old men. And their bees. And the plants. Their cottage. Their life.


End file.
